The Time Of Trial.
by Al
Summary: Sequel to Dracaena Draco, and the second story of three in the 'Dark Rising' arc. Harry must finally begin to come to terms with his past in this epic story. But the Dark Side is back ... with a vengeance, and soon the Light will be fighting for its lif
1. The First Trial

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
The Time of Trial forms the second part of the Dark Rising story arc, that is planned to conclude my interpretation of Book 5. As such it *is* a sequel to Dracaena Draco, and should be read as such. I strongly advise you read that story first.  
  
This story also marks a significant change in my style. I have been thinking for a while that I would like to get away from the tone of my previous works, which I think lacked at crucial moments, particularly during action sequences. Therefore, The Time of Trial will be a lot darker, a lot more psychological and generally, I hope, better written.  
  
You will need to concentrate! This will not be run-of-the-mill stuff. Dracaena Draco seeks to provide answers and theories as to some of the (still hidden) story behind JKR's first four books, and The Time of Trial will be probing deeper into Harry's past, and his future as well. My advice to readers is ...  
  
1. Do not take the apparent D/H theme as read. I have long prided myself on having no personal ship preference. Many things are possible ...  
2. Keep your eyes peeled. I love burying clues and linking back to obscure lines, sentences and snippets of information buried deep within the text, as regular readers will know. The story will make a whole lot more sense if you make this effort.  
3. Know that this is only my interpretation of the events, and my theories. To write this, I will need to make my own assumptions about the Magical world, and what is possible within it, some of which may eventually be disproved by JK.  
4. Drop me a review afterwards. I cannot say enough times, how deeply I appreciate comments, constructive criticism, and so on. Plus, you might get a note in the thank you section!  
  
If I haven't put you off completely, and I really, really hope I have not, then please read on. I promise it will be worthwhile ...  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
All the original characters, locations and concepts belong in their entirety to J.K. Rowling. I neither claim nor imply rights to any of it, with the exception of my original characters, and my cameos, who belong to themselves (waves at Keith, Sinead and Rhysenn). Neither am I making any money out of this!  
  
PART ONE. THE FIRST TRIAL.  
  
"Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide  
The darkness deepens: Lord with me abide!  
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee  
Help of the helpless, Oh abide with me!  
  
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day  
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away  
Change and decay in all around I see  
Oh thou who changest not, abide with me!  
  
I need thy presence every passing hour  
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?  
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be?  
Through cloud and sunshine, Oh abide with me!  
  
I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless  
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness  
Where is death's sting? Where, grave thy victory  
I triumph still, if thou abide with me!  
  
Reveal thyself before my closing eyes  
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies  
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee  
In life and death, Oh Lord abide with me!"  
  
Rain poured down ceaselessly out of a sky the colour of slate. It drummed upon the roofs of the cars parked outside. It pattered against the stained glass windows of the chapel, running in rivulets down the panes of colourful glass. The noise was so intense that the Minister could barely make himself heard above it.  
  
There were no more than twelve or thirteen people seated in the Malfoy family chapel that afternoon. It was cold inside the old stone structure, and in response, those present were crammed tightly into the front few pews.  
  
At first, Harry had been at a loss as to exactly why Malfoy's funeral was so sparsely attended. After all, he had been a man with connections, powerful connections that ran deep through wizard society. Now it seemed, in death, unlike in life, few proved willing to flock to his side. Perhaps it was that they feared association with the fallen, with the low and with the criminal. Or perhaps it was that they feared the wrath of the Dark Lord himself, Voldemort. Whatever those reasons might have been, the fact remained that there was hardly anybody there ...  
  
Harry's spirits were low. They had been low since his return from Naxcivan, the war-torn region of Azerbaijan, a remote republic deep within the Caucasus Mountains. He, his friends ... and Draco Malfoy, had been taken there against their will, in order that Lucius Malfoy might fulfill his 'duty' of restoring Voldemort to power. Their adventures in that tiny country had very nearly been the death of Harry, and for a few, brief moments, they had been the death of Draco. But there was another thing that addled his soul, constantly, gnawing away at it like a rat, and causing him inconsolable pain. For the first time in his life, Harry had spoken to his parents. They had appeared to him, in spiritual form, to guide him and aid his escape from the clutches of Darkness. And it had been James Potter who had shown his son that he had within him more powers than he had ever dreamed of, including the ability to transform himself, at will, into a stag at least as powerful and noble as Prongs.  
  
But that meeting with the parents whose memories he adored had been too painful for him. He had left Naxcivan emotionally drained, and with the knowledge that the one thing he wanted in his life above all else could not be granted him, reinforced. It was a horrible cross to bear.  
  
Harry had not spoken of his worries, of his fears to anybody else ... not Dumbledore, not Ron or Hermione, and not even Sirius, for he had been taken away, re-arrested upon their return, now awaiting trial in Azkaban. So Harry suffered in silence.  
  
And now, as they closed their hymnals, and sat down again, he felt more elated than he had done in days, weeks even. There was something uplifting, something inherently glorious about church singing. It made a shiver run down his spine. He had shared in something beautiful and private. And he had a feeling he would need what faith he had more than ever in the coming times, whatever they might hold. As the Minister bade them kneel and pray, Harry's eyes were shut tight, his hands clasped together, squeezing the blood out of them, his lips moving rapidly in time with the Minister's words.  
  
The coffins were lowered into the graves at two minutes past three. It would have been fitting, perhaps, if, as the words of the funeral service were read to the assembled company, the clouds had parted briefly, the rain had stopped, and rays of sunshine had descended from heaven, bathing them in light. However, this did not happen. All that did happen was that the rain eased off a bit.   
  
Harry shuddered, not caring to think about the last time he had stood in a graveyard, four whole months away in time, now, but still in his mind, achingly close. He could still feel the ground under his feet as he had fled, blinded by fear and terror, as the Death Eaters cast spells and curses at him, stumbling over to the limp body of Cedric Diggory, his fingers grasping the Triwizard Cup. No, however much Harry preferred not to think of that night, he could not stop himself. It was as though he was being made to sit again through a movie that he had seen a thousand times before, and would see a thousand times again, until it was engraved upon his memory like words upon a headstone ... permanently.  
  
Harry and Hermione shared an umbrella. Draco was standing a few feet away from them, his head bowed, Tatiana clasping his hand. Her face was hidden behind a black mourning veil, so that her emotions were not betrayed. In her free hand she held a bunch of white lilies. Harry could not hope to imagine what they must be going through. He, Harry, had lost two parents without really being fully aware of it. He had been only a baby at the time of Voldemort's attack, after all. Draco had lost both of his parents at the time of his life when he was most in need of them. That had to count for something.  
  
More common ground.  
  
Harry noticed Draco had not brought any flowers at all with him. At first, Harry had not been entirely sure why this was, and Draco had explained it on the train down to London from Hogsmeade in some detail. He did not feel that bringing flowers would solve anything. Both Lucius and Narcissa remained dead ... and Draco felt he had never known either of them as well as he had thought he had, or as well as he had hoped. He felt alienated from them.  
  
Harry could see his point ... almost.  
  
He tried not to imagine Draco's parents' remains, alone and cold under the hard, clay soils. He preferred not to think of Draco's Father at all. But Harry also had to keep reminding himself how much he had hated the man, hated Lucius Malfoy for what he had done to his family, for what he had become, as did they all. But that had been hatred in life, and now that he was dead and almost buried, each of them was separately coming to the conclusion that they did not know what they should feel for him anymore. Should they hate him? Nobody should have to die, nobody, not like that.  
  
Harry decided he probably should not hate Draco's Father anymore, and he hoped Draco decided the same ... he tried to catch his eye, but the other boy was giving nothing away. Just like Draco, really ... although he had broken down and cried on Tatiana's shoulders during the singing of 'Abide With Me.'  
  
The brief service ended, and gathering his robes tight around himself, Harry followed them out of the churchyard, turning back as he closed the squeaky gate, to see the single bunch of lilies resting on the sodden ground before the new, marble headstone.  
  
**************  
  
They gave Sirius a little water and a loaf of bread. He did not look up as they left the cell, and the door was slammed shut. After a while, he heard their unearthly footsteps tapping on the floor as they walked away, and after about a minute longer, the cold feeling began to fade, and he at last felt able to open his eyes.  
  
The pitcher of water was about half full, and though it was a strange colour and smelled funny, he lifted the heavy earthenware jug to his lips and drank deeply, relishing the feeling of wetness in his throat. He set the jug down on the straw covered floor, and then dipped his hands into the water, splashing it on his face.  
  
From the folds of his robes he withdrew a small, pocketknife. It was a regular Muggle one, but they hadn't bothered to take it away from him when he arrived, for it could do no damage in Azkaban. It was handy for cutting great hunks of bread out of the loaf, however.  
  
Sirius had sustained himself over the previous two weeks with fantasies of fluffy, white loaves spread liberally with butter, and maybe jam too. The stuff they gave him here in Azkaban was dark, brown and heavy, and it sat on the bottom of his stomach like a cannonball. That was the only good thing about it ... you didn't need to eat much to stop feeling hungry ... indeed, it was said of the bread in Azkaban that that men would eat anything to avoid having to touch it.  
  
He masticated thoughtfully on his vile bread, before giving up, and putting it back down on the floor. Lunch would be the usual bowl of porridge; thick, lumpy, and quite unlike the smooth, creamy stuff he was used to. Dinner would be more of the same ... bread and cheese, with a hunk of dried bacon on Sundays. That was the only way he had been able to tell what day it was; bacon day was always Sunday, and there had been two of them so far. That meant two weeks. He had been using his penknife to scratch a rudimentary calendar on the wall of the cell; the Dementors had done nothing to keep him from doing this. Fourteen notches in all ... that made it ... that made it the 30th of September. Which was ... which was ... he struggled to remember. 30th of September ... that made it Saturday, surely. Saturday morning.  
  
With a titanic effort, he swallowed the bread, and then leaned back against the wall of the cell, feeling the cold stone, hard against the back of his head. Every night he could see them in his dreams, faces, floating before him. Usually Harry's ... sometimes Gwyneth's, once or twice even Draco's ... and they were laughing at him, laughing at him for having the stupidity to assume he wouldn't be caught, for assuming he could live a normal life. It was a tremendous fight for him to maintain his knowledge that they weren't really laughing at him.  
  
There was only one blessing, only one faint glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel; the knowledge that they had captured Pettigrew, that he would be brought as a witness and that he would prove Sirius' innocence ...  
  
**************  
  
"If you'd like to take a seat, Harry," one of them gestured him to the chair standing in front of the desk. Harry closed the door, looked warily around the office, and then sat down in the proffered seat.  
  
The two men sat down on the opposite side of the desk. One of them shuffled some papers, and then put them inside a drawer. The shorter of the two had a very red face that gave the impression of having had far too much gin too early in the morning. He was portly, and his Muggle suit was stretched tightly across his expanding beer gut. The other was a tall Irishman with very dark hair and an aquiline, Roman nose.  
  
"I'm sure you know why you're here," said the fat one.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Well, not ... um, really," he faltered. "Why am I here?"  
  
The fat one smiled at the other. "Well, we're representatives of the High Court of Magic, Harry. My name is Norman Hunt, I'm the Convenor of the Court, which basically means I give the orders to the Judge and order the Court to session. This is my colleague, Eoin Ó'Cíobháin. He is one of the best lawyers in the country, and he'll be representing your Godfather in his trial."  
  
"Um ... okay," said Harry.  
  
"We just thought it might be a good idea for us to come up here and have a little word with you prior to the trial, put your mind at ease and so on," said Hunt. "I assume you're aware that you've been summoned to appear as a witness for Sirius?"  
  
Harry nodded, he'd got the letter yesterday.  
  
"Right, that's good," said Hunt. "Before Mr Ó'Cíobháin gives you a brief run down of what will be expected of you, are there any questions that you'd like to ask me?"  
  
Harry, who had been staring very intently at his shoelaces, which were coming undone, looked up, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. Then he blinked. "There were a few things," he said.  
  
"Fire away ... I think you'll find me intimately familiar with the inner workings of the Court," said Hunt, smiling at what he thought had been quite a funny joke; it being worth mentioning that Norman Hunt was possessed of no sense of humour, and had marginally more culture than a cheese sandwich.  
  
"How long is it going to take?" asked Harry. "Trials can last forever, can't they?"  
  
"They can last a long time, yes, Harry," said Hunt. "However, there is the possibility that Mr. Ó'Cíobháin will succeed in proving Sirius innocent very quickly indeed, if his evidence is corroborated, and I have a feeling it will be. This trial will merely be a formality."  
  
"You mean Pettigrew, right?" asked Harry.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin smiled. "Exactly," he said. "I have great confidence that the trial could be over in about a week, maybe less. It depends how quickly we can bring Pettigrew to the stand. The Ministry's lawyer is a man called Trevithick ... he has a reputation as a very tough cross-examiner. He could easily keep the Court tied up for weeks."  
  
"That's bad, right?" asked Harry, looking up again.  
  
"It very much depends," said Ó'Cíobháin. "If he takes a long time over questioning all the witnesses he can find, he could very well dig himself into a substantial hole. The thing is, I want to keep Pettigrew until the very end, so that all your statements will be corroborated."  
  
"Why don't you bring him out first and end the trial early?" suggested Harry.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin smiled. "Ah, yes. Well, that would seem to be eminently reasonable, wouldn't it?" he said. "However, the larger the body of evidence in favour of Sirius is, the greater the chance we'll get him off. I'll be calling several people, including Remus Lupin ... I believe you know him?"  
  
Harry nodded. He hadn't actually seen Remus for a very long time. He had been a Marauder, along with his Father, Sirius and Pettigrew, back at Hogwarts, and latterly had held the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts master during Harry's third year. It would be good to see him again. "Who else?" he asked.  
  
"Well," said Ó'Cíobháin. "There's you, obviously, you're a key witness, so I'm afraid you'll have to expect Trevithick to be very harsh with you. Then I'll need to speak with Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger," he paused, briefly consulting his notes, "Albus Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, and Draco Malfoy ... amongst many others ..."  
  
"What do you need to speak to Draco for?" asked Harry.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin smiled mysteriously again. "Sirius isn't only being tried for the crimes he didn't commit all those years ago, Harry. He's also up on a charge of abduction."  
  
"Abducting who?" asked Harry.  
  
"Well ... you, Draco, Hermione. This whole Naxcivan thing. The Ministry are very anxious to keep Sirius behind bars ... they're going to be dredging up everything they can think of. That's why we need to concentrate on more than just clearing him for the murder of your parents, Harry. Trevithick will be asking you things that may seem, on the face of it, to be completely unrelated to the trial, and you won't be able to do a thing about it. I'm just warning you, so you'll be prepared."  
  
"There's a chance that he'll go back to gaol then?" asked Harry.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin nodded. "Well, yes, that chance always exists," he said. "However, Harry. You forget that we aren't Muggles, I think."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"I'm referring to a certain potion known as Veritaserum," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Do you know what Veritaserum is, Harry?"  
  
Harry nodded ... Snape had cruelly threatened to use it on him last year to find out who had been stealing ingredients from his store cupboard, and he had later seen it used on Bartemius Crouch Jr., to extract a confession from him after the final incident of the Triwizard Tournament. Literally, it was a truth serum. When under the influence of it, it became physically impossible to lie, though Harry had no idea how it actually worked or felt.  
  
"Will you be using it on everyone?" asked Harry.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin nodded. "When they say the High Court of Magic is a place of truth, they aren't kidding," he grinned. "We use it on everyone, without exception. Technically, it's the Judge's prerogative ..."  
  
"How d'you mean?" asked Harry.  
  
"The Judge has the decision as to whether or not the potion can be used in a Court in which he presides. Thankfully, we've drawn Winterbourne Strickland. He's an excellent Judge, and he permits us to use Veritaserum if we want."  
  
"Some Judges don't?" asked Harry.  
  
Hunt nodded. "Plenty," he said. "Vikram Sivanandarajah, for instance, he's a Tamil, from Southern India. Veritaserum is illegal under Indian law. And God knows what we'd have done if we'd drawn Sir Haarlem Vlachtbos. He's Muggle born ... hates the stuff."  
  
Ó'Cíobháin continued. "But, we've nothing to worry about. And it means Trevithick is greatly inconvenienced. He can't accuse any of the witnesses of lying, you see. It's kind of a hobby of his," he added.  
  
"But does it hurt, or anything?" asked Harry.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin raised his eyebrows. "Veritaserum? No," he shook his head. "If you try to lie, it'll just ... well, it just won't. There's no pain involved ... matter of fact I'm not entirely certain just how it works. But it does. You won't feel a thing."  
  
This was a relief to Harry.   
  
"Is there anything else?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
Harry shook his head. He couldn't think of anything.  
  
"Okay, so. I'd like to give you a brief run through of your testimonial to the Court. Now ... at every stage I will be guiding you through what you say. One thing will lead into another. It'll be nice and safe, nice and simple, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"That's the easy bit. When Trevithick gets his hands on you, it'll be a completely different kettle of fish. And I won't be able to help you, though I'll try and object as much as possible, throw him off track. If we can make him look like a silly arse, it'll work in our favour."  
  
"You mean sabotage him?"  
  
"That's one way of putting it," said Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
"That's not illegal at all?" asked Harry.  
  
"Oh no, everyone does it. Make the other man look like an idiot, it subtracts credibility from what he has to say, makes us look better," he leaned closer to Harry over the desk. "What you have to remember, Harry my boy, is that we lawyers are basically evil bastards."  
  
"I ... uh, see," said Harry.  
  
"Of course, our friend Trevithick will be trying to do exactly the same to us," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Don't let yourself get distracted by him. Don't let yourself get upset by what he has to say. You know the Ministry is just paying him to be horrid. I always try to imagine the opposition wearing pink bikinis, or something. Try that, it helps. Remember, Harry, that above all, Trevithick is an insecure forty-eight year old who lives with his parents and has a pathetically small ..."  
  
"That'll do, Eoin," interrupted Hunt. "You are meant to be taking Harry through the testimonial."  
  
"Yes, okay. Sorry Norman," he said. "Right, Harry. I will first ask you how you met Sirius, where, and under what circumstances. I will take you through the events of the day you ran away from the Dursleys, I will take you through your sightings of Sirius in his Animagus form ..."  
  
"You know Sirius is an Animagus?" said Harry.  
  
"For the purposes of the trial, yes, that's going to have to come out," said Ó'Cíobháin. "They will be asking Sirius how he broke out of Azkaban ... that's the one thing, incidentally, that could keep him in gaol ..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, breaking out of Azkaban is a criminal act, and one Sirius is hands down guilty of."  
  
"Then this is all pointless," began Harry, making as if to rise from his chair.  
  
"No," said Ó'Cíobháin. "When we prove that Sirius should not have been in Azkaban in the first place, that charge won't have a leg to stand on, and Trevithick and the Grand Jury will know it. Anyhow, that's speculation at this point. Back to your testimonial. I will then take you through the process of how you became aware of your relationship to Sirius, through to your first actual meeting with him in the Shrieking Shack ..."  
  
"How do you know all this?" asked Harry, suspecting he already knew the answer.  
  
"I have spoken to Sirius, Harry," said Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
"You have ... um, I mean, how is he? Is he okay?"  
  
Ó'Cíobháin shook his head. "I won't mince words, Harry. He isn't okay at all. He's in a bad way ... the Dementors are not easy going creatures. That's why we need to bring him to Court as soon as is possible. Then we'll come to the events of this month, how you came to be in Naxcivan, and how it is painfully obvious that Sirius did not intend to abduct you, indeed, that he did not, that was done by other people. This process will be uninterrupted by the opposition, and if you are as succinct and clear spoken as possible, shouldn't take much longer than an hour. Then it's over to friend Trevithick, who sadly will have as much time as he wants to cross examine you. From that point I can't give you any help, beyond objecting and generally being distracting."  
  
"I understand," said Harry, in a quiet voice.  
  
Ó'Cíobháin smiled supportively. "It isn't going to be easy, Harry," he warned. "But I have to say, I have the utmost confidence in you ..."  
  
**************  
  
Sirius grimaced as the now familiar ball and chain was manacled once again around his bare ankle, the metal cold against his skin. He felt his hair standing on end as he was led down the corridors underneath the Court, to the High Security Trial holding area. This tiny room, not much more than eight foot by six, contained a bed, with a sacking mattress and a thin, sleazy, brown blanket, a small stone washbasin stood in the corner, with a single, cold tap, and there was a bucket for a lavatory. Sirius sighed as the handcuffs were taken off, and the door slammed shut. In Azkaban, the doors had been iron bars, but this door was solid oak, ten inches thick. He heard the bolts being drawn across it. Then, as the footsteps of the gaoler faded away down the corridor, he turned to survey his new quarters.  
  
This tiny cell would be his home for the foreseeable future; however long the trial took, this was where he would remain when not in Court.  
  
He crossed the room (this took about three paces) and stared out of the barred window set high up in the wall. It was a tiny window, far too small for any human under the age of ten to crawl through, and it afforded an aspect of the central courtyard. There was a pile of hay, two horses tethered to a post, an expensive looking carriage, and, against all probability and looking very out of place, a brand new, silver BMW.  
  
Sirius turned away from the window, and sat down on the bed. A previous occupant of the cell had carved a complicated astronomical calendar onto the wall, which Sirius could quite easily have decoded given a couple of hours and a book on Ancient Runes. He lay down on the horrid mattress, covered what he could of himself with the blanket, and waited for sleep to overcome him.  
  
**************  
  
Harry opened his eyes, rolled over in bed, and checked the alarm clock. It was a quarter to seven in the morning. Harry groaned, and flopped back down onto the pillows. The bed was so obscenely comfortable that it shouldn't have been allowed; a proper, goose feather mattress, chunky pillows, and an eiderdown that was so thick and fluffy it had nearly suffocated him twice during the night.  
  
Harry's mind was telling him that really, he had no intention of getting up for a long, long time. The enormity of what was about to happen had kept him awake into the wee small hours of the morning, and his sleep, when finally it came, had been disturbed, the dreams painful.  
  
There was light slanting through the gap in the curtains; bright, morning sunshine. Sighing greatly, Harry heaved off the eiderdown, and climbed out of bed, feeling for his slippers, which he had left at his bedside. Then he stumbled, bleary eyed, over to the window, and parted the curtains.  
  
He had not been able to appreciate the view when he had arrived the previous night ... it had been dark when they arrived at King's Cross, and the Broomstick Rental Centre had been closed for staff training, so they had been forced to take a Muggle taxi to Diagon Alley, getting stuck in bad traffic on the way. Consequently, they had not reached their destination until nearly half past nine.  
  
It was stunning. The room was on the fourth storey, and looked out over the ramshackle roofs of wizarding London. Below him, Diagon Alley stretched away, undisturbed by human presence so early in the morning. In the far distance, he could make out St Paul's cathedral, the ugly tower blocks of the East End, and very far away indeed, the silvery bulk of Canary Wharf, glinting in the morning sunshine.  
  
Harry showered, dressed in his best dress robes, and then went down for breakfast in the hotel dining room. It was not especially crowded ... the Britannia Hotel was the sort of establishment that preferred to discourage guests if it was at all possible, unless, of course, they were prepared to pay through the nose for top notch treatment. The Ministry had offered to put them up, at its own expense, in accommodation within the Ministry building, but Dumbledore had been dead set against the idea, carrying as he did, something of a grudge against the higher elements of the Ministry. Therefore he had taken money from Hogwarts' vast vaults, and had got them; himself, Harry, Hermione and Draco, rooms at the Britannia ... the finest, most expensive magical hotel in the world; all luxurious beds and fancy carpets and service that was to die for. It was owned by a shady business consortium based variously in Toronto, Edinburgh and Bridgetown, Barbados.  
  
Harry and Hermione were served breakfast at a secluded table in the corner of the restaurant, looking out through French windows over the vast parkland that the Hotel owned. The park itself lay at the heart of wizard London, and covered an enormous area, filled with trees, wide open grasslands, a lake for sailing and swimming (with a large and benevolent kraken inhabiting it), a herd of deer, and even, hidden away in the middle, the National Quidditch Stadium, or the Pudding Bowl, as it was affectionately known.  
  
It was a most singular view.  
  
It was a pity, then, that Harry was not appreciating it as much as he should have been. For Harry's stomach was filled with butterflies. He felt like he couldn't eat a single thing, and he barely managed to force down a single bite of the extravagant spread the kitchens of the Britannia had laid on. His hands trembled as he drank his tea and tried to eat his toast. Hermione, too, appeared nervous, managing only a croissant, spread liberally with jam, and a small cup of black coffee, and as for Draco ... he had not even bothered to turn up for breakfast, preferring to stay in bed with his head underneath the pillows. Neither of them spoke to one another, for there was nothing much that could be said. Both of them knew why they were there. Neither one of them was much looking forward to the ordeal that would shortly be forced upon them. Even Harry ... who had, in his time, faced far worse things, felt more scared now than he had done when facing Lord Voldemort in the graveyard at Little Hangleton the previous summer. For he knew, and Hermione knew, and Draco would know (as soon as he woke up) that, quite literally, everything hinged on the next few days ...  
  
In less than an hour, they would both be walking into the High Court of Magic, into the midst of the biggest criminal case in years. It was a case that, far up in the north at Hogwarts, they had been isolated from for the past week, but now no longer.  
  
They had been listening to the news on the Wizarding Wireless Network the previous evening, up in Harry's room. The reporter had described how rioting crowds had besieged the Court ... how Cornelius Fudge's administration was on the verge of permanent collapse. It had seemed so distant to them both ... until they looked out of the window at the mob surging along Diagon Alley below, bearing placards and torches and chanting slogans. And then it had hit them both. This was nothing less than the biggest civil upset ever to have affected the wizarding world, and it was happening in three dimensions, and in glorious Technicolor, in the street below them. It was a very surreal experience. The papers were already whipping up a feeding frenzy over it ... the Trial of the Century, it had been dubbed in the Daily Prophet, though the Prophet's editor pursued a policy of stunning unoriginality and said that about most trials.  
  
This time the editor had hit the nail squarely on the head ...  
  
The Trial of the Century? Certainly ... when you're trying the man who betrayed his friends and killed thirteen people ... when you're trying the man whom even Azkaban could not hold.  
  
When you're trying Sirius Black ...  
  
Dumbledore joined them at around twenty past seven. He had changed from his customary, slightly shabby, velvet work robes into a smart set of dress robes in royal blue. He looked very important indeed. He gave them both a supportive smile as he sat down at the table with them, but did not otherwise seem to have anything to say to either of them, which was most unlike his usual self.  
  
Harry sipped his tea, then, by way of making small talk, said. "What time are we in Court?"  
  
"Nine o'clock," answered Dumbledore, stiffly. Harry already knew this ... Dumbledore, who was extremely familiar with the processes and practices of a Magical Trial, had briefed him fully on the train down from Hogsmeade the previous afternoon. The conventions, and the behaviour to which he would be expected to adhere completely, were significantly different from any Muggle trials Harry might have seen on TV.  
  
The High Court of Magic was an institution amongst wizards, but an institution whose relevance to the modern world was beginning to be questioned. Its rules were archaic and draconian, its ceremonies mind-bogglingly complicated. Harry had lain awake for many hours in his room the previous night, his mind running over and over the events that were to come, until they took on the status, almost, of a waking nightmare. Consequently, there were ugly bags hanging heavy underneath his eyes. He felt utterly awful. The next few days were going to be a waking nightmare.  
  
**************  
  
"... will today commence the trial of Sirius Black, convicted of numerous crimes in 1981. Black absconded from Azkaban during the summer of 1993, and has been on the run ever since. He was apprehended a week ago at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Northumberland, where he has been hiding out for some time, disguised as a member of staff. Lawyers for Black claim that they have unearthed startling new evidence that may prove, once and for all, whether or not Black was guilty of the crimes he was sent down for. This looks set to be the trial of the decade, if not the century. This is Enid Brook, WWN News, London."  
  
"In other news today, operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service announced the seizure of more than a tonne of illegal potions in a Muggle lorry at Dover. The lorry was stopped by Muggle Customs Officials as part of a random search for illegal immigrants ..."  
  
**************  
  
They took their seats in the Courtroom Chamber. The Chamber itself was packed to the gunwales with lawyers, witnesses, clerks, guards, and almost two and a half thousand spectators, who had crammed themselves into the mezzanine gallery overlooking the Chamber. And all this was done in complete silence. Not a human voice could be heard. The only sound was that of footfall on the stone floors, and the low beating of a drum, coming from the ante-chamber outside, where Harry had been told Sirius was being held by elite foot-soldiers of the Minister's Guard, armed to the teeth, and amongst the few men licensed to use the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra.  
  
Dumbledore ushered Harry into a seat. The witnesses were herded into a small holding area directly opposite the bank of seats that the Grand Jury was occupying. The distance between the two was, allegedly, that of the distance between two drawn pikes. The seats were long, wooden benches of an antique red hue, arranged in rows, like pews in a church. Between the two banks of seats was a large wooden construction, built of the same dark red mahogany of the rest of the furniture, accessed up a short flight of steps, the whole topped off with a metal cage. This was the Dock where the Defendant stood. On either side of the Dock were further platforms, both with wooden lecterns holding heavy ledgers, a pot of ink and a quill, and a small candelabra, one for the Foreman of the Jury, and one for whatever witness was being cross-examined. None of the candles were lit, indeed, the only light was the natural daylight slanting in through the high, stained glass windows.  
  
Around this construction was drawn a circle, picked out as a deep groove in the flagstone floor. This denoted the area around which the Wards were drawn up, protecting everyone within from attack. If an attack did occur, the custom was for the entire Grand Jury, and all the witnesses, to cram themselves into this circle. Fortunately, according to Dumbledore, it had only been used once, in the aftermath of Voldemort's first Reign of Terror, when Death Eaters had broken into the Chamber during, coincidentally enough, the Trial of Lucius Malfoy.  
  
"Stay quite calm," said Dumbledore. "This takes some getting used to."  
  
Harry looked across the Chamber floor. The Judge's position on the dais was flanked by several desks, at which already sat the clerks, looking pompous and silly in their over-starched hats. Behind the Judge's seat, which in reality was more of a throne, opulent red leather abounding, was, carved into the stone wall in relief form, the coat of arms of the High Court, depicting a rampaging hippogriff carrying a flag. On either side of this bizarre sculpture were two more flags. On the left hung the flag of the International Confederation of Wizards; a red background, with sixteen yellow stars, representing the sixteen founder nations, ranged in a circle around the world, representing all the others. On the right hung the Union Jack.  
  
Without warning, the Judge Apparated into the centre of the floor. What little whispering was going on in the Chamber ceased instantly. The Judge raised his right arm, and turned towards the dais, facing away from the packed Court. At first, Harry thought it looked like he was throwing a Nazi salute, but then he noticed the Judge was holding a long, wooden torch, burning with an eerie green flame.  
  
The Judge bowed his head towards the dais, and muttered some ritual incantation that nobody heard, that nobody was meant to hear. Then the green flame torch guttered and died.  
  
The Judge raised his head. A sonorous and slow voice that was patently not his own, echoed around the Chamber.  
  
"With the extinguishing of the Green Flame, all present are hereby bound to the Court Chamber in spirit and body. With the extinguishing of the Torch, all present do declare that they are bound to tell only the truth in this Chamber. With the extinguishing of the Torch, the High Court of Magic is declared open. The presiding Judge is Sir Winterbourne Strickland."  
  
The Judge stepped up to the throne on the dais, and sat down behind his desk. There was a jug of water, two large books, and another candelabra, which flickered into life as he sat down. Simultaneously, the other candles and torches around the walls, which Harry had not previously noticed, erupted into flame.  
  
"The Court will rise for the prayer."  
  
There was a rumbling sound as two thousand people got to their feet at once. Harry, even though he didn't have a clue what was going on, found himself standing up too. He was not especially surprised to see that Hermione looked very familiar with the whole thing, and even mouthed the words of the prayer as the Judge intoned it. Draco stood slumped forwards, his eyes half closed, his head bowed ...  
  
"Our Father. Grant that the High Court of Magic might seek and arrive at an honest and truthful verdict. Grant that the verdict shall be the correct one. Grant that justice shall, indeed, be done, and grant us the wisdom to find it. Amen."  
  
"Amen," he heard Dumbledore whisper under his breath. There was another rumbling sound as two thousand people sat down again.  
  
"Under the terms and conditions of the 1977 Emergency Justice Act, copies of which are available in the foyer, the High Court of Magic convenes today, this 3rd day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1995, to try Mr. Sirius Eamonn Black. Before Mr. Black is brought into the Chamber, it is my duty to inform the Court of his crimes. Mr. Black is charged with the following; supplying information to the Dark Forces, breaking the Fidelius Charm, betraying bona fide agents of the Ministry of Magic, acting under the influence of the Dark Lord, charming a Muggle motorcycle with intent to fly, murdering thirteen unarmed and unidentifiable Muggles, murdering one Mr. Peter Victor Pettigrew, absconding from gaol, breaching the Magistrate's Court Order No. 760C, of August 26th 1993, and finally, conspiracy to abduct minors.  
  
I must now ask the Grand Jury to forget all that they may have heard about this high profile case. You have all been selected because the Court has deemed you to be impartial, intelligent, trustworthy witches and wizards. Please do not give us cause to doubt this. It is always vital that one approaches a case with an open mind, and today, it is even more vital. We are here to do justice, and whatever may be your decision, we shall abide by it. But may God help your souls if it is the wrong one. Do I make myself understood?"  
  
The Foreman of the Jury rose, and gave the Judge the briefest and the curtest of nods.  
  
"Thank you. Please bring in the Defendant."  
  
At these words, spoken a fraction louder to make himself heard outside, the drum, which had fallen silent, began to beat once more. The doors into the Chamber swung open, and two of the Guardsmen walked in, slowly, carefully, judging each step, each man perfectly in time with the other. Behind them walked Sirius. Harry craned his neck to get a better view, willing Sirius to look in his direction, needing human contact with him, needing to know that he was still all right, and that the week he had spent in Azkaban had not sent him out of his mind. He was quite clearly not all right. Harry could not see very well from where he was sitting, but Sirius looked tired, strained and ill. He was wearing prison robes, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. The humiliation was complete by the ball and chain he was dragging behind him. His head was hung, avoiding the stares of the spectators, some of whom were booing and hissing. Harry tried to make eye contact, but Sirius was staring resolutely at the jurors as he was led up the steps, and into the Dock. The guardsmen slammed shut the door behind him, and retired to their positions around him. Sirius did not look up.  
  
"Your name is Sirius Eamonn Black?"  
  
Sirius looked up at this point, and nodded. "That is my name," he said, his voice hoarse and cracked.  
  
"Your date of birth, if you please?"  
  
"March," said Sirius. "March the 14th, 1959."  
  
The Judge consulted his notes. "That is correct. Mr. Black, before we move further, I would like you to confirm to the Court that you have taken Veritaserum, and agree to be bound to the terms of its use. Furthermore, you acknowledge that anything you say will be taken by this Court as the gospel truth."  
  
"I understand," said Sirius. "I mean ... I confirm it, yes."  
  
From where Harry was sitting, he could see his Godfather visibly shaking, and he was filled himself with a sickening fear. Even though he knew Sirius was innocent, even though he had seen the evidence with his own two eyes, there was still a lingering vestige of doubt within him. For all the certainty that Veritaserum offered him ... there was still the chance, still the possibility. Sirius' innocence was not completely proven. The Jury could still find him guilty. He found himself shaking in response, and Dumbledore, noticing this, put a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"We'll be fine," he whispered hoarsely. "We'll get him off. It'll be okay."  
  
Harry wished he shared the Headmaster's confidence.  
  
"Sirius Eamonn Black. You are charged with the following crimes; supplying information to the Dark Forces, breaking the Fidelius Charm, betraying bona fide agents of the Ministry of Magic, acting under the influence of the Dark Lord, charming a Muggle motorcycle with intent to fly, murdering thirteen unarmed and unidentifiable Muggles, murdering one Mr. Peter Victor Pettigrew, absconding from gaol, breaching the Magistrate's Court Order No. 760C, of August 26th 1993, and finally, conspiracy to abduct minors. Is this understood?"  
  
"Perfectly," said Sirius.  
  
"Then we begin," the Judge banged his gavel down. "This Court is now in session!"  
  
**************  
  
Trevithick paced back across the stone floor of the Chamber, the only sound the clicking of his shoes on the stone floor. Hardly anybody in the Court dared draw breath. The Spectators Gallery, packed to the rafters, practically overflowed with onlookers.  
  
Sirius had been led through his story, the process taking little more than twenty minutes, for he had had plenty of practice at getting his spiel just right. Each new twist in the tale had elicited fresh gasps of astonishment from the audience. Thankfully for Sirius, Magical Law forbade the presence of any kind of media within the Court, and so his words were not yet being aired to an impatient world. However, it seemed to Harry, looking on from his seat down amongst the other witnesses, that the impatient world was already listening in.  
  
He could sense that, for Sirius, at least, the process of admitting it all, of telling everything that had happened to him over the past fifteen years, was in some way cleansing him. He spoke with force, elaborated his words with great flourishes and gestures ... he truly, thought Harry, was a great orator. Ó'Cíobháin barely had to prompt him once, the story just seemed to come flowing out.  
  
And then Trevithick had been set loose upon him ...  
  
With a snort of indignation, Trevithick turned back to the dock, where Sirius was standing, leaning forwards, supporting his frame on the iron bars that enclosed him, like some kind of zoo. Harry knew the bars were impervious to magic ... the High Court operated under the strictest security. From where he was sitting, he could see clearly the red restraint marks on Sirius' wrists.  
  
"Mr. Black. You claim you left the dwelling of Peter Pettigrew at approximately twenty two hundred hours on the night of the 31st of October, in the year 1981. Am I correct in those details?"  
  
Sirius nodded grimly.  
  
"And am I also correct in assuming that you went straight from said address to Godric's Hollow?"  
  
Sirius nodded again.  
  
"You did not stop for anything on the way? You did not buy any newspapers, or any cigarettes, or any petrol. I understand you were a smoker at the time."  
  
"That is correct, sir."  
  
"Then surely, with the, so called knowledge that Pettigrew had betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord, with the dread and the fear that must have been hanging so heavy in your heart, you tell me you did not need a cigarette?"  
  
"I had a packet on me," said Sirius, staring blankly ahead of him, barely acknowledging the rest of the Court.  
  
"Can you tell me what brand?"  
  
"Rothmans," said Sirius, without hesitation. "One packet, twenty cigarettes, I'd smoked about ten of them earlier in the day."  
  
"This information seems remarkably clear in your head, Mr. Black," said Trevithick. "These events occurred fourteen years ago. How can you have any idea of such minute details?"  
  
"I had a lot of time to think," said Sirius. "You get that, in Azkaban."  
  
Trevithick stepped back up to his lectern, and shuffled his notes in a gesture he had been taught made him look impressive, though the reality was that it made him look like a lawyer who had forgotten what he was going to say next.  
  
"So, you proceeded directly from Hogsmeade to Godric's Hollow. A journey that takes, at the most, thirty five minutes. Yet you took nearly two hours. What happened during this two hour period, Mr. Black?"  
  
Sirius looked down at his feet. "Heavy traffic," he said.  
  
"Heavy traffic? At ten o'clock at night? On the moors of Northern England? Mr. Black, I need hardly remind you that you are under oath to this Court, and that everything you say is being noted by the Clerks?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Nevertheless, I was delayed," he said. "The weather was bad, it was hard to see where I was going, and there was more traffic than I had anticipated."  
  
"But would you describe the aforementioned 'traffic' as heavy, Mr. Black?"  
  
"Well, not as such."  
  
"Not as such," repeated Trevithick, his words dripping with scorn that made Harry want to leap up off his bench and strangle the man until he'd had enough. Dumbledore, sitting next to him, evidently sensed somehow his rising anger, for he put a calming hand on Harry's shoulder.  
  
Trevithick continued to speak. "Therefore, you arrived in Godric's Hollow at approximately twelve midnight. This would now be the early hours of the 1st of November, 1981. Am I correct?"  
  
"Objection. The Counsel for the Prosecution is clearly badgering my client!"  
  
"Objection overruled," snapped the Judge, banging his gavel. "The Counsel for the Prosecution is conducting a reasonable and fair cross examination. Mr. Trevithick, you may continue."  
  
"Thank you, your Grace," said Trevithick, shooting a triumphant glance at Eoin Ó'Cíobháin, Sirius' lawyer. "Mr. Black. Please confirm for me your time of arrival in Godric's Hollow?"  
  
"Approximately five past midnight," said Sirius, weakly.  
  
"And tell me what you found there, if you please?"  
  
"I ... I left my motorbike at the front gate, and I walked down the path. And I already could see that the house had been blown apart. But I was still calm at that point. I thought perhaps the Fidelius Charm might not have been broken. I thought they might be all right. And then," he stumbled at this point ... looked down at his feet, as if the details temporarily eluded him, as if it was a struggle to find the words. "Then I found James' body."  
  
"Tell us, please, where you found it?"  
  
"There was a pile of rubble," said Sirius, sneaking a glance at Harry, who was concentrating very hard on his shoes. This was, of course, the first time in his life he had had to live this moment through the eyes of another man, a man who had been a friend to his parents. "It was ... buried underneath, in the hallway, his wand was split in two, and ... the corpse was bloodied, from where the falling bricks had hit it. Covered, covered in blood. Blood like I'd never seen before, so very much of it," he broke off, examining his hands. Trevithick coughed, loudly, prompting him to continue. "Hagrid was standing by the fireplace ... the fireplace was still standing, in the middle of all that rubble ..."  
  
"Do you recognise the man Hagrid in this Court?" interrupted Trevithick.  
  
"He is not present," said Sirius. "Currently at Hogwarts. He did not want to travel to London for the trial."  
  
"There are many who say that Hagrid, upon his ah, temporary disappearance at the end of June of this year, returned to the Giants of Europe, of the Urals, the Carpathians? There are some who say he has returned to the Dark Arts, Black. Do you believe these rumours?"  
  
"I would not think them possible," said Sirius. "Hagrid was always a very good man, a good friend to me, and to James and Lily too, and latterly to their son."  
  
"So you believe Hagrid to remain, on side," smirked Trevithick. "Even though he declines to be present today ... you still believe this thing to be true?"  
  
"I do, sir. With all my heart," said Sirius.  
  
"I see. Your Grace ... I put it to Mr. Black that his version of events is incorrect ..."  
  
"Objection, your Grace. My client agreed to the use of Veritaserum in this trial," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Might I remind Mr. Trevithick, who, I might add, is hardly playing the role of the impartial prosecutor for which he has acquired such status, that the physical act of lying is impossible under the influence of Veritaserum."  
  
"It may have been tampered with," snapped Trevithick. "Black, you have influential friends, do you not? Friends who would want to see you freed from the gaol you so richly deserve to be returned to you? Friends such as Mr. Albus Dumbledore, whom I believe is present in this Court, and whose scare stories and blind acceptance of the fabricated lies of Mr. Harry Potter lead me to believe he must too, be in the service of the Dark Lord ..."  
  
Harry heard Dumbledore snarl ... he sounded very much like an angry dog.  
  
"Mr. Trevithick," snapped the Judge. "This is not the time, nor the place for such unfounded accusations. This is slander and we will accept no slander in this Court. This is a place of truth, which on the evidence of my eyes and ears, you seek to corrupt. Do you withdraw your previous statement?"  
  
"I withdraw, under duress," snapped Trevithick.  
  
"Thank you," said the Judge. "I, as do the Officials of the Court, the Grand Jury and the Magical Law Enforcement Service have the utmost confidence in the efficacy of Veritaserum. It will not be called into question in a Court in which I preside. Do I make myself quite clear?"  
  
"Crystal clear, your Grace," snarled Trevithick, turning up his nose at Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Trevithick. This unwarranted interruption to the proceedings will, of course, be noted on the official record. Do you wish to continue questioning the Defendant?"  
  
Trevithick nodded. "I believe it would be advantageous to my case for the cross examination to continue," he said, though he spoke more quietly.  
  
"Then continue, and let us hear no more unfounded, baseless accusations," said the Judge. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin ... do you have anything to add?"  
  
"Nothing, your Grace."  
  
"Then continue."  
  
Trevithick smiled, and turned back to Sirius. "You found Hagrid standing by the fireplace," he said. "Tell me, if you please, what Hagrid was doing on the scene?"  
  
Sirius closed his eyes, and he appeared to be thinking, though Harry knew that he, too, had preserved that horrible moment in his mind, as fresh as though it had happened yesterday. He could tell what Sirius was visualising ...  
  
"Hagrid was the first to arrive," said Sirius, his voice cracking under the stress of it all. "He was the first on the scene. He was holding Harry in his arms. But all I could see was James and Lily, my friends ... my friends gone and dead ... and gone for good. That was it. I didn't notice him, and I just stood there, and I knew what had happened and I knew who had done it and I knew what was coming next. I knew what everyone would think had happened. I knew I couldn't stay there. But ... but I wanted to take Harry with me. I thought ... it was stupid, but they had named me as a Legal Guardian ... I thought if I took him with me it would make it okay. That, if I had Harry to back me up nobody could touch me ... nobody could imprison me, or take him away from me, because the love I had for that child at that moment, that would surely be enough. It would be enough to convince them that I had done nothing wrong. And I must have ... I must have begged Hagrid to let me take Harry away."  
  
"But he wouldn't?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "No, of course he wouldn't ... it was the most sensible thing he could have done. It was the most sensible thing any of us could have done. Because I knew what was coming. Everybody else would think I was the Secret Keeper, and poor, sweet, innocent little Pettigrew would never dare to get his scrawny little neck mixed up in such messy business. Clever, eh? You see, his plan worked. He walked free and spent the next twelve years as pet to a wizard boy."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Black. Your Grace, I offer no further questions at this time."  
  
**************  
  
"... were led into Court nearly two hours ago, following which the doors were closed, and are now sealed tight shut. As the Trial of the Century gets underway here in London, it's back to you in the studio, John."  
  
"Thank you, Enid. Today, as the Trial of Sirius Black finally gets underway, fourteen years too late, we ask ourselves the question, why? Why was this not done when the time was right, what incompetence, what catalogue of bureaucratic error, what gross miscarriage of justice must have been perpetrated all those years ago? We can probably never know the answers to these questions, but one thing is for certain. Justice will be done in this case, and what a case it is! The entire wizarding world is on tenterhooks today, just waiting for news. In the United States, Australia and many other countries correspondents report widespread civil unrest in magical communities. Spurred on by the Black case, many families are coming forwards to claim retrials for those men executed in hasty reprisals following the Dark Lord's downfall. WWN's US correspondent, Bernie Featherstonehaugh-Smythe, is on the steps of the Department of Magic in Washington ... Bernie, what's the situation like there?"  
  
"Thank you, John. Well, it's still the wee small hours of the morning here, and the candlelit vigil that local witches and wizards have been holding since yesterday evening still goes on. Most of these people are relatives of men and women who were either incarcerated, kissed, or executed following the Struggle. Rumours abound here that the trial of Sirius Black may force action against the Magical Authorities here in the States. Earlier in the evening the Secretary of Magic, Donald J. Greenbough emerged from high level meetings at the White House to talk to reporters and protestors alike. Mr. Greenbough appealed for all sections of American magical society to remain calm, and not to take any hasty action. It appears that in the face of such widespread popular resentment, the US Government is fighting a rearguard action. Reports are coming in as we speak of widespread rioting in the magical quarter of Salem, north of here, in which there are unconfirmed reports of damage to Muggle property in the area. We'll be getting more information on that very shortly. Back to you, John."  
  
"Thank you. I hear we can now go live to Enid, back at the High Court. Enid, what have you got for us?"  
  
"John ... within the last five minutes, we are receiving reports that four people may be gravely injured after operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service fired disarming spells into the crowd outside in an attempt to disperse it. Outside now we are seeing signs of considerable disturbance and anger, much of which is being directed against the MLES. No further news available there, we'll keep you posted on that breaking news story."  
  
"Thank you, Enid. We can take you now to ... no, I understand we have to go to a weather forecast, so we'll have that report for you, just as soon as we can get it ..."  
  
**************  
  
Sirius' and Dumbledore's testimonials both over and done with, and both, handily, corroborating the other down to the last detail, Harry began to feel increasingly sick as the High Court convened again after the mid-morning coffee break . The spectators filed back into their seats in the mezzanine gallery, the Judge took his place again, and Sirius was brought back out from the cells, looking quite pleased about something, which prompted the Judge to remind him that the Court was not a comedy revue.  
  
Harry could see the crowd straining to get a better view of him as he was led, by two uniformed guards brandishing five foot long ceremonial staffs, up to the stand. Even though he knew, deep down, that he was not in trouble, and that nothing untoward was going to happen to him, not with all the Hit-Squad Wizards surrounding the Court, he still felt nauseous with fear, his knees were shaking, and as he stepped up ... he suddenly felt very dizzy. He cast a look back at Dumbledore and Hermione, who were both sitting in the front row. Dumbledore gave him what was supposed to be a supportive grin. Then he looked up at Sirius, who was sitting on his seat in the Dock  
  
The Judge's eyes were boring into him. Slowly, he looked up. He was an enormous, great bear of a man, who in many ways resembled Harry's Uncle Vernon. He had the same beefy, red face, the same wobbly jowls, and the same bristling moustache. The only dissimilarity was the giant black wizard's hat perched atop his thinning, silver hair.  
  
At length, he coughed, and then spoke. "Your name is Harry James Potter? Correct?"  
  
Harry nodded, slowly.  
  
"For the benefit of the Court, Mr. Potter, I must ask you to speak up when you answer our questions. Is that perfectly understood?"  
  
"Yes, your Grace," said Harry, as he had been prompted to. His knees were still quivering violently. His eyes scanned the Spectator's Gallery frantically for any sign of a friendly face.  
  
"Harry, I would like you to take the Bible in front of you, and place your hand upon it, and repeat after me the following words."  
  
He caught sight of Molly and Arthur Weasley, and his heart leapt briefly. Slowly, he reached out, and placed the Bible on the lectern in front of him. Then he put his hand on the cover.  
  
"Repeat after me, please, Harry," prompted the Judge. "I, Harry James Potter."  
  
"I, Harry James Potter."  
  
"Summoned here upon this 3rd day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1995, to appear before the High Court of Magic ..."  
  
Harry repeated his words.  
  
"... as a witness in the case of the Ministry of Magic, versus Sirius Eamonn Black, do hereby solemnly swear that I will uphold the Laws and Conditions of the High Court, as set out in the Book of Magical Law ..."  
  
" ... set out in the Book of Magical Law," Harry stumbled along behind.  
  
"... and promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ..."  
  
"... nothing but the truth," finished Harry.  
  
"... so help me, God."  
  
"So help me, God," repeated Harry.  
  
"Thank you. Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, would you care to begin taking the witness through his statement?"  
  
Ó'Cíobháin stood up, smiled at Harry in a manner as friendly as he could muster; he was, after all, wearing menacing black robes and a long powdered wig. He glared at Trevithick. The Prosecutor on behalf of the Ministry, was a tall man with a bony, theatrically pale face that called to mind the visage of Professor Snape. He was holding a very large ledger open on his desk. He looked up at the sound of the Judge's voice.  
  
"Thank you, your Grace," said Ó'Cíobháin, who looked as though he was grinning. Trevithick looked on; his eyes were a deep, penetrating blue, but bloodshot with it, and he surveyed Harry with the air of a lion, surveying the carcass of its prey.  
  
**************  
  
"... at eleven o'clock. The High Court of Magic convened in its London chambers this morning, to hear the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Sirius Black. Black stands accused of no less than ten crimes, including murder, and remains the only man to have absconded from Azkaban and remain at large. Present at the Court were more than two thousand spectators. The presiding Judge, Sir Winterbourne Strickland, told the packed Chamber in his opening speech that the very fabric of wizarding society is about to be called into question. It remains unclear exactly what he meant, but earlier in the day, several notable witnesses took the stand, including Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and currently Headmaster at Hogwarts School, and being questioned as we speak is his 'star' pupil Harry Potter, who also happens to be Black's Godson. Whatever surprises are to be sprung upon an expectant community within the course of the next few weeks, they are sure to be of a great magnitude. This is Enid Brooks, for WWN News, at the High Court of Magic in London."  
  
"And we will, of course, keep you updated on that story as news comes in. Our other top stories this morning. Operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service have arrested six men within the last hour on suspicion of importing illegal potions into the UK. The stash, worth an estimated forty million Galleons, was discovered in a Muggle lorry at Dover in the small hours of the morning. The Muggles present have since had their memories altered. America wakes up this morning to widespread civil disorder amongst the magical community. Secretary of Magic, Donald Greenbough is shortly to issue a statement, we'll be going live to Washington for that, we can also confirm riots in Salem, Massachusetts have killed one Muggle, and in Australia, angry crowds of wizards have besieged the Central Magical Administration Centre in Sydney, demanding the resignation of Governor General Piers Bletchley. In the business world, spokeswizards for Malfoy International Industries have announced today that the company is now, officially, in receivership ..."  
  
**************  
  
Harry was duly led through his testimonial to the Court, Ó'Cíobháin prompting him at all the right moments. He was taken variously right over the events of the past two years; from the moment when, sitting at the breakfast table back at 4, Privet Drive, he had overheard the Muggle newscaster talking about Sirius' escape from gaol, then to the fateful evening Aunt Marge had been inflated after taunting Harry one too many times (this part of the tale drew gasps and whispered encouragement from the Spectators' Gallery, prompting the Judge to get very angry with the entire Court). Harry told of how he had flung his things into his trunk, and made a run for it, encountering as he went Sirius in Animagus form, watching him on the corner of Magnolia Crescent; his rescue by the Knight Bus and subsequent sojourn in Diagon Alley. He spoke of the Dementors crowding around the school, and Dumbledore's face fell as he confessed to having sneaked out of school on the Hogsmeade visits that year; on one of those visits Harry had been hiding in the Three Broomsticks, eavesdropping on a conversation between several members of staff and the Minister of Magic himself, during the course of which he had finally learnt of his true relationship to Sirius.  
  
Then they came to their encounter in the Shrieking Shack, on the day of Buckbeak's execution, just after the Third Year exams had finished. Harry stammered his replies to Ó'Cíobháin's questions, painfully aware that the entire audience were on the edge of their seats. He described in vivid detail the events of their return to Hogwarts, how the Dementors had nearly sucked out his soul, and how Pettigrew had, against his word, morphed back into his Animagus form, that of Ron's rat, Scabbers, and fled. The audience gasped in all the right places as Harry went on to describe the complicated means by which they had rescued Sirius from under the clutches of the Ministry, and he had flown to safety on Buckbeak.  
  
Harry, his voice now trembling and cracking slightly, despite Ó'Cíobháin's frequent calming words and advice, went on to describe the events of the year of the Triwizard Tournament, how he had been in frequent contact with Sirius throughout, and how his Godfather had tried, in vain, to help him out when he had been stuck on the first task. He even went into detail about how they had been disturbed by Ron, to whom he had not been talking at the time. He spoke about how they had rustled food from the Hogwarts kitchen to bring to Sirius, and then, finally, in the most harrowing part of his statement, for these were the events still freshest in his mind; took the Court through the events of the third and final task, and described how Sirius had remained at his bedside afterwards, and went on to elaborate on the events that had come to pass in Naxcivan. There was very nearly a riot in the Spectators' Gallery at that point.  
  
The testimonial over and done with, Trevithick was invited forwards to begin cross examining Harry ... which he did, with a vengeance ...  
  
"... you claim, Mr. Potter, that you were unaware of your 'position' as Black's Godson until that day?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Can you tell me what date that was?"  
  
Harry looked around, his face pale with the stress of trying to remember events so long passed, so long consigned to the dustbin of his memory.  
  
"It might have been, on or around the 13th of December," he stammered, after a very pregnant pause, during which you could have heard a fly fart.  
  
"What year?" Trevithick's voice was a most unpleasant one ... it sounded like rock scraping against rock, it sounded like ice, like glaciers, grinding.  
  
"1993," Harry answered immediately. "But I didn't actually meet Sirius until the next summer, June, 1994," he added, by way of an afterthought.  
  
"A period during which," Trevithick consulted his sheath of notes ... he had filled up pages of one of his trademark leather bound ledgers with line upon line of tiny, impossibly neat copperplate handwriting. "You claim, according to your aforementioned testimonial, to have been under considerable academic pressure. Am I mistaken in my belief that the day you met Sirius was the final day of your exams?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"And you had also been preparing a defence for the hippogriff, Buckbeak, who was under pain of death for an attack upon a student going under the name of Draco Malfoy? This day was the date set for Buckbeak's final appeal?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"So you will admit to being, not entirely in command of your faculties upon meeting with your Godfather for the first time? It had, after all, Mr. Potter, been such a very hard day for you and your friends, and you had just witnessed the seizure and disappearance of your friend, Ronald Weasley."  
  
"I was worked up, if that's what you mean," said Harry, quietly, catching Ron's eye briefly. He was sitting in between his parents in the Spectator's Gallery.  
  
"Will the witness please speak up?"  
  
"I was worked up," said Harry, uncomfortably aware that he was sweating like a pig ... his robes were sticking to him, and there was a horrible, burning itch that he longed to scratch, creeping down his spine.  
  
"Worked up enough to believe stories that were blatantly false?"  
  
"I told you, Sirius was telling the truth. Pettigrew was there. You'll be speaking to him later!" said Harry. "Why don't you ask him this? He knows more about it than I do!"  
  
"Mr. Potter, you may be a boy," Harry felt his ears burning. "But I can and will have you charged with Contempt if this attitude is kept up. We are not here to judge Peter Pettigrew ... we are here that your version of events might be aired. Were you worked up enough to believe your Godfather's blatant lies?"  
  
"No," replied Harry.  
  
"Your Godfather spun you a somewhat fantastic tale. He claimed," Trevithick checked his notes again. "He claimed that it was, in fact, Pettigrew who murdered those Muggles, and that he was still alive and well, in the guise of your friend's pet rat, Scabbers ..."  
  
"I wish to raise an objection!" Sirius' lawyer, Eoin Ó'Cíobháin stood up. "It has already been proved in the testimonials of both Sirius Black and Hermione Granger that Pettigrew remained alive when everybody thought he was dead. We have still to confirm the testimonial of Draco Malfoy, but I am assured his story will corroborate the others. There is nothing whatsoever fantastic about this tale. It is the truth."  
  
"Your objection has been noted, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin," said the Judge, peering at the lawyers over his spectacles. Trevithick shot Ó'Cíobháin a death ray glance.  
  
"Mr. Potter," Trevithick went on. "Can you confirm that your Godfather told you that the murderer was Pettigrew?"  
  
Harry nodded, slowly. Then he said. "Yes, Sirius told me that."  
  
Trevithick was looking very pleased with himself. "But surely Sirius would say he was innocent? After all, he was on the run, evading capture. He would need to use every last trick in the book to make it look as though he was innocent. What made you believe that he was telling the truth? It looks to me like the last actions of a desperate man. If I refer the ladies and gentlemen of the Grand Jury to file photograph number 16, in which it is clear that the so called Shrieking Shack was boarded up, and had been for some time, it becomes clear to me that, as you have all described the interior, there was only one way out, down the tunnel, back to the Whomping Willow ... a tunnel we now know that was dug to facilitate the activities of a werewolf, no less ... further proof, if any further proof were needed, that Mr. Dumbledore is a dangerous man and an unreliable source ..."  
  
"Mr. Trevithick. You are deviating from the subject on the card," said the Judge, frostily.  
  
"I apologise," snarled Trevithick. "Yet I make no secret of my desire that the Grand Jury see that I am right. Now, Mr. Potter, you claim that Sirius had earlier attacked your friend, Ronald Weasley?"  
  
Harry looked to Sirius, who was staring down at him from the Dock, wide eyed. Then he nodded.  
  
The Judge sighed. "The witness does not appear to understand that the record cannot see he nodded. You must speak clearly and loudly."  
  
"He did," said Harry. Sirius closed his eyes.  
  
"Breaking his leg?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Yes, Ron's leg was broken."  
  
"In an attempt to trap you all in the Shrieking Shack. You must surely see how this looks. It appears to me that," he consulted his notes, "Professor Severus Snape was doing you a favour ..."  
  
"Snape was poking his ugly nose in where it wasn't wanted!" blurted out Sirius, rising to his feet and clasping the bars of his cage.  
  
"The Defendant will remain silent!" roared the Judge. A whisper travelled around the Spectator's Gallery.  
  
"Thank you," snarled Trevithick, looking at Sirius as one might look at a slug. "Yet, Mr. Potter, you and Ms. Granger wilfully attacked and wounded Professor Snape ... an act of assault that in my day at Hogwarts would surely have warranted expulsion ..."  
  
"Objection!"  
  
The Judge sighed. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, what is it now?"  
  
"We are not here to try Mr. Potter for attacking a member of staff, however deliberated the attack may have been. We are hear to try my client ..." he winked at Sirius.  
  
The Judge scowled. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, we are not the comedian Rowan Atkinson, we will therefore refrain from indulging in facial contortions."  
  
Sirius winked back. The Judge did not notice. "Mr. Trevithick, on the strength of Mr. Ó'Cíobháin's objection, I require you to pursue a line of interrogation relevant to the subject in hand ..."  
  
"I believe that is what I am doing," said Trevithick. "I seek, like you, the truth. Nothing more. Now if I might continue without unwarranted interruptions. Mr. Potter, to return to your cross examination. Can you confirm for me that Sirius offered to let you come and live with him, afterwards, after his, so called, innocence had been proven?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Yes, that's what he said," he replied.  
  
"I see. Did it not occur to you that this, too, may have been a trap?" asked Trevithick.  
  
Harry shook his head. "No," he said. "When you speak to Pettigrew, you'll understand ... he's agreed to take Veritaserum."  
  
"Pettigrew's testimonial will be taken in due course," said Trevithick. "I will thank you, Mr. Potter, to cease attempting to distract me. The facts of Pettigrew's apparent survival have yet to be put before this Court. We are concerned purely with what you have to say. Now, did it not occur to you that Sirius Black might be trying to trap you? Remember, if you will, that he had already sent you a broomstick, which might have been cursed or jinxed ..."  
  
"But it wasn't!" snapped Harry, rising to his feet, his blood boiling, every inch of his being longing to pound Trevithick's thick head against the floor. "I still have the Firebolt ... I still use it, it's fine!"  
  
"But it might have been cursed," retorted Trevithick, maintaining throughout a disturbing calm that had the effect of making Harry want to kill him even more. "It might have been, yet you used it. And let me remind you that Sirius had already appeared to you in his Animagus form on numerous occasions before that, each time making you think you were seeing a Grim ... a spectre of death. Frightening you half to death on more than one occasion. Mr. Potter, does this not strike you as odd at all?"  
  
"In what way?"  
  
Trevithick sighed. "Mr. Potter ... the sighting of a Grim is enough to drive people to their graves."  
  
"Yes, but it wasn't a Grim," said Harry. "I really don't understand what you are getting at here."  
  
The Judge spoke up. "I have to admit, Mr. Trevithick, that I completely fail to see what relevance this has to the current line of questioning. You will be charged with Misleading the Court under the terms of the 1466 High Court Charter if this ludicrous round of questioning continues. Please keep to the matter in hand."  
  
Trevithick looked ready to explode. "I maintain my previous line of questioning," he said. "The Grim could have killed Harry at any time. My concern is only for the truth ..."  
  
"Mr. Trevithick. I do not know if I can make it much clearer to you without writing it in big letters," sighed the Judge. "Harry ... Mr. Potter did not see a Grim. He saw merely his Godfather, and the facts of the Godfather's innocence or guilt are what we are here today to determine. Now, I think we need a break; this is becoming farcical. Thank you, Mr. Trevithick. We will stop it there ..."  
  
The gavel banged down.  
  
"This session of the High Court of Magic is adjourned for luncheon. It is one p.m. The Grand Jury will be sequestered until further notice. The afternoon session will begin at three o'clock sharp. Guards, please remove the Defendant from the dock, and hold him until he is called for. Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen for your kind attention."  
  
They filed out of the courtroom in stunned silence. Even though he had been in the Witness Stand barely an hour, Harry already felt that it had been going on for years. Already the dank, dusky smell of the stone Chamber of the High Court of Magic smelled eerily familiar, and the faces of the guards ... grim and emotionless, were etched onto his mind like the most horrible of memories.  
  
Harry knew that not if he lived to be a hundred and fifty could he ever forget Sirius' face, as they were led out of the Chamber. It was a face of utter despair, of utter hopelessness and of utter terror. He had only spent a couple of weeks in Azkaban before his case came to Trial ... the media had been in such a frenzy that it had been pushed forward ahead of schedule on Minister Fudge's personal orders. Yet those two weeks back in Azkaban, with the Dementors, had evidently undone him once more. His face, which had filled out and become considerably less gaunt in the few months he had been hiding out at Hogwarts, had returned to its former blank, expressionless form. He looked exactly how he had done when Harry had first met him, nearly eighteen months earlier. His hair was lank and unwashed, his beard thicker and bushier. As Harry was led past, Sirius stuck his hands through the bars of the Dock, trying in vain to reach Harry. The guards restrained him.  
  
There was a perfectly adequate canteen at the High Court, but Dumbledore thought it would do them good to get out of the oppressive atmosphere that pervaded through the corridors of power, and took them five minutes walk down Diagon Alley to the more familiar surroundings of the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
Harry was relieved to discover that the paparazzi, who had been encamped outside the High Court as they had arrived that morning, had dispersed elsewhere, and they were not bothered by anybody, apart from the waiter in the Leaky Cauldron, who nearly choked to death upon catching sight of Harry, or more specifically, of Harry's scar. Dumbledore silenced him with a particularly well aimed and altogether nasty stare.  
  
"Steak and kidney pie, chips and mushy peas," he said, gravely. "With a side of onion rings."  
  
Harry gave the Headmaster a funny look. "So ... I just happen to like onion rings," protested Dumbledore. "Cheer up, Harry. You look like a wet weekend."  
  
"I feel like one," said Harry. "Um ... gammon steak please?"  
  
"Fish and chips," said Hermione. "No salt on the chips please. No ketchup either, and a bit of lemon."  
  
The waiter scribbled their order down on his pad, and throwing another backwards glance at Harry, disappeared off behind the bar.  
  
"There's no need," said Dumbledore. "I know it may seem hopeless, but we do still have an ace up our sleeves."  
  
"You mean Pettigrew?" asked Hermione.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "And that awful Trevithick man knows it. That's why he was being so harsh."  
  
"I thought that was normal," said Harry, very quietly. Tom, the owner of the pub, brought their butterbeers over at that point.  
  
"Oh no," said Dumbledore, raising his tankard and taking a deep gulp. "Believe me, Harry. I've been to enough trials in my life ... most of them after Voldemort's downfall, like the one you saw in my Pensieve. That was unexpectedly, unreasonably harsh, especially considered your ... um, current situation. And Trevithick is an evil bugger anyway, which doesn't help. I used to teach him, many years ago," his eyes took on a wistful look. "Always was a tricky sod."  
  
"He must really hate me," mused Harry.  
  
"Well ... he was a Slytherin," said Dumbledore, his tone still airy and far off. "But trust me, he doesn't hate you at all. He's just being paid to take the Ministry's point of view. That's all it is. He just seems to want to give people a hard time."  
  
"What'll they do to Pettigrew then?" asked Harry, changing the subject hurriedly.  
  
Dumbledore shrugged. "That very much depends," he said. "First, the Grand Jury has to clear Sirius. Well, that could be a matter of days ... or maybe even hours. Or at the opposite end of the spectrum, it could take weeks, maybe even months. The longest trial the Grand Jury ever deliberated on lasted for seventy five years. I believe the Defendant died in the end. Anyway, the amount of evidence Trevithick is producing makes me fear for the longer option ... well, the man seems intent on indicting him for every unsolved crime on the books ..."  
  
"And Pettigrew?" asked Hermione, echoing Harry's thoughts; Dumbledore was ducking their questions.  
  
"I know, Harry, Hermione, that we both believe, very strongly that the Court will prove Sirius innocent," began Dumbledore, who seemed, for some reason, to be avoiding Harry's question. "But there is always the possibility that they will find him guilty. And in that case, we must prepare for the worst. If he is found guilty, he will certainly be kissed ..."  
  
He was referring, Harry knew from his own experience, to the dreaded Dementor's Kiss, the ultimate punishment in the wizarding world, by which the condemned man's soul was sucked out of him by a Dementor, one of the unearthly guardians of Azkaban, the fortress gaol. The victim was left afterwards an empty, soulless husk, conscious, but unable to think or experience emotion of any kind. It was a fate worse than death. And it was what faced Sirius ...  
  
"However, I for one consider it extremely unlikely. The tide of popular opinion is against Fudge right now. After all, he allowed Lucius Malfoy's activities to go unchecked," said Dumbledore. "It would certainly be advantageous to Fudge's administration to let Sirius go free and to try Pettigrew. The evidence certainly points that way. I suspect the Judges will see reason. And then Pettigrew will be tried."  
  
"But what will they do to him?" asked Harry.  
  
"Well, technically he will be on trial for the exact same crimes as Sirius was originally convicted for, so if he is found guilty ..."  
  
"The kiss, right?" asked Harry, sipping his butterbeer.  
  
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "That would seem to be the case," he said.  
  
Harry's face fell visibly. "Is there something wrong?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "No, not really. I mean, it's what he deserves. He practically murdered my Mum and Dad, after all. It's just ..." he choked slightly, and then looked away.  
  
"But he did save your life," said Dumbledore. "Harry. Do you remember, after he first escaped from us, at the end of your Third Year? Do you remember that I told you the time would come when you would be very glad that you saved Pettigrew's life?"  
  
Harry nodded. "You did," he said.  
  
Dumbledore looked stoical. "Perhaps that was the time ... the time he saved your life. Perhaps he was repaying his debt to you. Did you ever consider that?"  
  
The waiter came back over with a small basket, filled with bread rolls. Dumbledore took one, and broke it in half with a calm, collected air. Harry did not. Neither did Hermione.  
  
"Perhaps that is how you should look at it," said Dumbledore, spreading butter liberally on his roll.  
  
"That is how I look at it," said Harry. "It's the first ... the first thing that actually occurred to me, and, and he deserves the worst punishment he can get. But ... I still get this feeling, you know. I don't believe he's an evil man any more. Not evil like Voldemort or Slytherin."  
  
"Come, Harry, there is very little evidence to prove that Slytherin was an especially evil man," began Dumbledore. "Unpleasant, yes, nasty, oh, indubitably, but ..."  
  
"Have you ever met him?"  
  
"No," said Dumbledore, masticating slowly on the bread roll. "I have never met him."  
  
"You're lucky then, sir. I have," said Harry. "Believe me, he's evil. Slytherin is the dictionary definition of evil. Look up evil in the dictionary," he went on, "and you will see a little picture of him."  
  
Dumbledore's bearded visage broke into a grin. "Well," he said. "Nevertheless. I have to say I'm glad you feel that way about Peter Pettigrew."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"It shows strength of character ... moral fibre, which you have already demonstrated, many times before that you possess ample quantities of."  
  
Harry could feel himself blushing. There was a hot, prickling sensation behind his ears. Dumbledore merely smiled indulgently, swallowed another bite of his roll, and then continued to speak. "Well, I am right. I believe Harry, that you are a truly good person. Such a thing is very rare indeed. A lesser man than you would certainly want the worst for Pettigrew. It says good things about you that you don't necessarily feel this way."  
  
"I think I understand," said Harry.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Good," he said. "That's good. You're wise beyond your years. Have trust, Harry. Faith and trust. Good qualities," he munched on his roll, and then winked.  
  
END OF PART ONE.  



	2. Don't Look Back In Anger

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
Most of the characters, locations and concepts in this story are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and assorted other publishing houses and production companies. I claim no rights over the characters, locations or concepts, and nor is any money being made. And of course there are hints, allusions to and lines from any number of the following; old Beatles hits, Red Dwarf, Blackadder, Discworld, Rob Rankin novels, Chris Morris' excellent The Day Today et autres, none of which I own.  
  
NOTES.  
  
You might want to read Part One first. You might also want to read Dracaena Draco, which is a prequel, though this can be read as a stand alone.  
  
PART TWO. DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER.  
  
"... section this evening. In other news, operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service continue their hunt for missing fashion designer Simon Branford, who disappeared from his Oxford home several weeks ago. Rumours of Branford's possible involvement in the so called Dracaena Affair have yet to be confirmed or denied. Meanwhile, crowds of fans and well wishers continue to besiege his home, and teenage witches up and down the land are said to be distraught. But we now can return you to our top story this morning ... now in its sixth day, the trial of Sirius Black once again dominates our headlines this morning. The trial is now entering what many commentators see as its crucial final stages, for it is today that Black's lawyer, Eoin Ó'Cíobháin will present to the High Court key evidence, including the testimony of a man now being referred to as Peter Pettigrew, long thought dead by Black's hand in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's downfall in 1981. We have with us in the studio now Doctor Brian Keating of the Department of Recent Affairs at the St Andrews Institute. Doctor Keating, nice to have you with us ... how likely do you believe it is that this is, in fact, the actual Peter Pettigrew, whom everyone still believes to be dead? And if it is him, what was his actual involvement in You-Know-Who's downfall?"  
  
"Well, John ... this whole affair is still shrouded in mystery, and only very senior officials of the Ministry are a party to any specific information. It is suspected that Black betrayed those close to him ..."  
  
"Meaning the Potters?"  
  
"Yes, meaning the Potters, following the performance of the Fidelius Charm, a highly unorthodox and somewhat dangerous procedure. However, Black has stringently denied throughout the trial that he was ever the Potter's Secret Keeper, and has persistently pointed the finger at Pettigrew, who, as we now know, is rumoured to still be alive."  
  
"How likely do you think this is? It looks to me like the last actions of a man desperate to save himself from the Dementor's Kiss."  
  
"Well, John, in a word, yes, I do have to admit that that is how it appears. Of course, very little information about the trial is actually being released to the media at this time ..."  
  
"Despite the large number of spectators?"  
  
"Um, quite. But we do now have to factor in the news that Pettigrew may be alive and well."  
  
"If he is Pettigrew?"  
  
"There is that possibility ... that he might not be. But I believe we could be in for some disturbing revelations today. This case was never as clear-cut as the media and the Ministry made it out to be back in 1981. Remember, John, that Sirius Black was imprisoned without trial, and trials were granted to Death Eaters of considerably more infamy, in fairer circumstances. Someone, somewhere, has a lot to answer for, there may be allegations of corruption, of bribery, and of treachery reaching far into the Ministry."  
  
"This could, in short, go all the way to the top?"  
  
"I believe it could, yes. Many Ministry officials were involved at the time of Black's original imprisonment ... many of whom now occupy high positions. In the confusion following the Dark Lord's downfall, it is possible that corners were cut, that vital evidence was mislaid, and that things went wrong. It was, after all, a very hectic and traumatic time for everyone. I would be very surprised if we did not see a major inquiry following this trial, maybe even implications in Fudge's cabinet itself."  
  
"This could bring down the Ministry of Magic, then?"  
  
"That is a distinct possibility. It certainly looks that way from where I'm standing now. I may be wrong ..."  
  
"You believe Cornelius Fudge himself may be involved?"  
  
"Ah, now, I didn't actually say that. You're putting words in my mouth. I would refrain from commenting on that at this time."  
  
"You would adopt a position if the evidence against Fudge were to come out?"  
  
"I would have to."  
  
"What position?"  
  
"I cannot say at this time. The evidence hasn't come out yet."  
  
"To summarise?"  
  
"We're going to see some incredible claims being made in the High Court today, it's going to be big, whatever happens, there could be bad news in it for the Ministry if it goes Black's way, but I can say no more at this time."  
  
"Thank you, Doctor. Just time for a quick look at today's papers before the weather forecast ... the Hull Aphrodite leads with 'Crazed Werewolves in Store a Bad Mistake Admits Mothercare,' and the Prophet goes with 'Black Trial Latest,' ..."  
  
**************  
  
Pettigrew shot Sirius a glance as he took the Witness stand ... though what kind of glance it was, Harry was unable to tell. It might have been hatred, it might have been solidarity ... it might even have been repentance. Sirius' response, on the other hand, left no doubt as to his feelings towards Pettigrew. His lip was curled up into an angry sneer, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared back. Pettigrew turned away hurriedly, and glanced briefly at Harry, Hermione and Dumbledore. Harry caught the man's eyes for a brief second, but then looked away, unable to watch.  
  
He knew the man standing before the Court now would, in all probability, be tried for the same crimes as Sirius once the Grand Jury had found him not guilty, as they surely must do. He knew that in the same circumstances, he would have been shaking with terror ... screaming to get out, but not a flicker of emotion crossed Pettigrew's face. This man might be shortly executed, or subjected to the kiss, or a lifetime in Azkaban, which was almost as bad. His complete lack of emotion at his potentially awesome fate was disturbing.  
  
The Judge, having gone through the standard preamble of swearing the witness in, turned the proceedings over to Ó'Cíobháin ...  
  
"I warn you now, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, that we are here only to establish Mr. Black's guilt, or innocence, not to charge Mr. Pettigrew with any crimes at this time. Do I make myself perfectly understood?"  
  
Ó'Cíobháin looked up from his ledger. "Crystal clear, thank you, your Grace," he said, through gritted teeth ... obviously there were other things on his mind at that minute. Then he turned to Pettigrew, who was wringing his hands, beads of sweat standing out against his veined forehead, like minuscule jewels, a tic going in his left cheek.  
  
"Will you confirm to me, Sir, your name, date of birth and place of residence?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
Pettigrew nodded. "My name, Sir, is Peter Victor Pettigrew. My date of birth, the 15th of May, 1959. No fixed abode," he added. A low whisper of speculation travelled swiftly around the Spectators' Gallery.  
  
"Can you confirm for us that you are testifying under the influence of Veritaserum, Class C, and that everything you say is therefore the truth?"  
  
Pettigrew nodded. The Judge, however, was looking scandalised.  
  
"Mr. Ó'Cíobháin ... I need hardly remind you that the use of Class C Veritaserum on a witness in a trial is a highly unorthodox procedure ... I hope you have a very good reason for having done this."  
  
Ó'Cíobháin nodded. "Indeed I do," he said. "It is my belief that this man who stands before us is the one who should be standing in the Dock, instead of my Client ..."  
  
"Objection, your Grace!" Trevithick, too, looked outraged. "Ó'Cíobháin would say that ... he gets more money if Mr. Black is found innocent."  
  
The Judge snarled. "Mr. Trevithick ... during the last few days you have continued to amaze me with your baseless statements and slanderous lies to this Court. It is my opinion that you are unfit to try in the High Court of Magic, and rest assured that I will be making a full report on you to the Committee following this trial. You will refrain from questioning Mr. Ó'Cíobháin's motives so cynically."  
  
"I seek the truth as much as everybody else in this Court," muttered Trevithick, but he took his seat anyway. The Judge glared at the Spectators' Gallery.  
  
"The spectators will remain silent in this Court," he said. The backchat died away immediately. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin. This procedure is, as I have made clear, highly unorthodox. Nevertheless, such are the circumstances of this Trial that I am prepared to allow you to take Mr. Pettigrew's testimonial ..."  
  
Ó'Cíobháin nodded thankfully. "Your Grace is too kind," he said. He leaned forwards over his lectern, and put his hands on the corners to steady himself, then he looked down at his notes, and then he looked up again, and started to slowly shake his head. After a few seconds, he spoke.  
  
"Mr. Pettigrew ... confirm for me your address at the time of the Potters' death in 1981."  
  
"I lived at 46, Glamorgan Street, Blackburn," said Pettigrew. "With my Mother, now deceased."  
  
"Thank you ... Mr. Pettigrew. At what age were you approached by Lord Voldemort?"  
  
The spectators drew breath collectively. Harry heard frenzied whispering.  
  
"I was recruited into the cult of the Silver Serpent, also known as the Death Eaters in popular parlance, on the 16th of April, 1979. The initiation occurred at Ynys Enlii, off the coast of Gwynedd, in North Wales, at the hour of nine p.m. Present were the following Death Eaters; Bernard Crabbe, Thomas Goyle, Arthur McManus, Lucius Malfoy," Draco blanched at this point, "Robert Hammond, both Lestranges, Dimitri Karkaroff and his son. Severus Snape did not attend the ceremony due to illness, and remained unaware that I was a Death Eater ..."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew. I would now like for you to explain to this Court how you came to be the Potters' Secret Keeper."  
  
"Very well. The plan was for Mr. Black to become the Secret Keeper, as his testimonial has borne witness," said Pettigrew. "However, we ... that is to say they were very concerned that there was a traitor in their midst by this time. It was becoming obvious that Voldemort was being handed information by someone very close to the ... to the organisation."  
  
"The traitor was you?"  
  
Harry caught Pettigrew's eye again, and this time he looked away hurriedly, as though he could barely stand the sight of Harry. "I was the traitor," he said, finally, after a very long pause.  
  
"What gave them cause to suspect?"  
  
"The McKinnon family had recently been attacked. The Longbottoms had already gone into hiding, and the Weasleys were on the verge of performing the Fidelius Charm themselves. Arthur was most insistent. The last time I saw him was the group meeting on October 22nd, 1981. He was very agitated and clearly worried about his children, as were James and Lily In fact, it was Arthur who was pushing for James to perform the Charm. Dumbledore too. Anyway, at that meeting it was agreed publicly that Sirius would assume the role of Secret Keeper to test it out. Arthur Weasley put forward his nominees, and doubtless would have taken his family into hiding himself if events had not taken a turn. The meeting ended at half past eleven, and we returned home."  
  
Harry had not known any of this previously. His brain was starting to whirl ... there was too much going on, too much new information to process. He closed his eyes, and took deep breaths.  
  
"Then what happened?"  
  
"The very next morning, James and Lily owled me," began Pettigrew. "They had spoken with Sirius and all three of them agreed it might be beneficial to them if Voldemort could be thrown off the scent ..."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"Meaning let him go after Sirius," said Pettigrew. "Sirius would sooner die than volunteer information. He was a man of great integrity. Who would suspect me? Whoever would think it was me?"  
  
"Worthless rat!" snarled Sirius.  
  
"The Defendant will remain silent throughout," prompted the Judge. "Continue, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin."  
  
"We performed the Charm, Sirius was present, and James and Lily too. Nobody else was informed, although in hindsight, it might have been better for them if they had done," Harry wasn't sure, but he could almost have sworn Pettigrew's face twisted into a grin at that point. "Their reasons for telling nobody are really very simple. It was very difficult to know just who the traitor might be. If they went babbling about it to the rest of the group, then Voldemort could have been alerted within hours."  
  
"Yet this did happen," prompted Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
Pettigrew smiled. "Yes, deeply ironic, really. They chose to confide in the traitor himself. Had they gone to Arthur, or Remus, or Gwyneth, or even remained with Sirius, all would very probably have been well. It was the greatest day of my life. Voldemort had been displeased with me for some time, and when I found him that evening back at Ynys Enlii, I was so proud, so unimaginably proud."  
  
People were talking quite clearly to one another in the Spectators' Gallery up above. The Judge did nothing to stop them. One or two people were booing.  
  
"From that moment on, it was a matter of time before Voldemort got to them," said Pettigrew.  
  
"Very well," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Mr. Pettigrew. Confirm for us your actions and whereabouts on the night of October 31st, 1981."  
  
Pettigrew answered immediately. "I woke up at about seven thirty. I packed my things in my suitcases and trunks, and made sure my flat was locked before driving them down to London ..."  
  
"You drove to London?"  
  
Pettigrew nodded. "Indeed," he said. He looked thoughtful. "My vehicle was a 1978 Ford Transit, white, rented from Budget, the registration number as follows: TGK 462 T."  
  
"Why did you drive? Why did you not Apparate?"  
  
Pettigrew hung his head. "I have no Apparition licence, and I never have possessed one," he said. "I failed my test once, in 1977, when I left my spleen in Haverfordwest, and never tried again ..."  
  
Trevithick was on his feet again. "Your Grace, I find Ó'Cíobháin's line of questioning bafflingly irrelevant to the case ..."  
  
"Proceed, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin," said the Judge. "Mr. Trevithick, if I have to reprimand you again you will be charged with contempt of the High Court of Magic. I need hardly remind you that this carries a statutory two week penalty in Azkaban?"  
  
"I withdraw my statement forthwith," said Trevithick, bitterly. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin may continue."  
  
"I shall say if he may continue," snapped the Judge. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, you may continue."  
  
"Thank you, your Grace," Ó'Cíobháin shot a triumphant glare at Trevithick, who was now scowling. Ó'Cíobháin turned back to Pettigrew, who was staring blankly ahead of himself, and still appeared to be showing no discernible trace of emotion.  
  
"You drove to London. Where did you go?"  
  
"There is a Muggle self-storage firm with offices near the Leaky Cauldron," said Pettigrew, his voice curiously expressionless, which Harry rightly took to be a symptom of the truth serum administered to him. "I left items of value to me there. It cost forty pounds, although I did not keep the receipt."  
  
"And from there, you went?"  
  
"I went to the Leaky Cauldron," said Pettigrew. "I had several beers and a plate of chips with coleslaw, the whole coming to just under one Galleon ..."  
  
"We are not here to learn of your financial transactions, or dietary habits, Mr. Pettigrew," the Judge intervened. "Please supply only the information that Mr. Ó'Cíobháin requests of you."  
  
Harry could not see the spectators looking on, but he had the feeling they were probably all on the edge of their seats. He looked around himself. Dumbledore was sitting to his immediate right, his hands folded neatly in his lap. On his left was Hermione, who was paying the proceedings rapt attention, and sitting next to her, Draco. He caught Draco's eye.  
  
"You okay?" the other boy mouthed. Harry nodded. Despite what was going on, the sheer gravity of the moment, he felt weirdly calm.  
  
"Fine," he whispered back. Draco smiled at this, and leant backwards in his seat.  
  
" ... no apparent reason why you should remain in London beyond two p.m. that day?" Ó'Cíobháin was saying.  
  
Pettigrew shook his head. "Certainly," he said. "I had several appointments to keep with old friends. And I would have kept them too, had not Voldemort's plans gone quite so agley."  
  
"From Knockturn Alley. Where did you go afterwards?"  
  
"Back to the Leaky Cauldron ... I had another drink before setting off for Godric's Hollow, where I arrived at about six thirty."  
  
"Six thirty, this now being the evening of the 31st?" said Ó'Cíobháin. Pettigrew nodded. "You took Floo Powder?"  
  
Pettigrew nodded again. "Indeed I did. Upon arriving in Godric's Hollow, I took a room at the Duke's Wand under an assumed name ..."  
  
"What name?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
"The name I used was Walter Parker," said Pettigrew. "I thought it unlikely I would be recognised. James and Lily had lived there only two or three months, and I had only visited a handful of times since. I had another drink in the bar, and waited. At about ten thirty, it began to rain, and I left the hotel, and headed down the road to the cottage. There I found a place to stand in the spinney opposite, where nobody could see me. I had with me a quantity of cheese and pickle sandwiches, which I ate as I waited. It was a stormy Halloween, but there were still a lot of local kids out trick-or-treating. At eleven thirty, after they had left and gone to bed, I ... the thunderstorm broke over us. And at about that time I could have sworn I saw figures, two children, creeping about in the Potter's front garden. I'm sure I saw their shadows ..."  
  
"You are sure you saw people?"  
  
Pettigrew shook his head. "By no means am I sure," he said. "It was probably just a rabbit or something. At eleven thirty five, James arrived home. He was He left the car outside, and went into the house, he was carrying ... I remember so clearly, chocolates and flowers. Shortly afterwards, a young boy emerged from the woods ... I was ... I was alarmed ... to say the least. But I don't know what happened to him ... Voldemort summoned me at that point ..."  
  
Harry coughed, loudly, and for a second, all eyes in the Courtroom were on him. Mrs Weasley, sitting in the front row of the Spectators' Gallery, was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and Mr. Weasley had his arm around her. Harry had never known before that they had even been acquainted with his parents, and it galled slightly that they had never had the courage to tell him that. But he could understand why, too. The memory was still painful for everyone, after all ...  
  
Pettigrew now continued to speak. "I stood in the rain, getting sopping wet for a good minute or so, talking to Voldemort. We prepared ourselves, and then I followed him up the garden path to the front door of the cottage."  
  
The images he was describing were suddenly hauntingly real. Harry could feel the sting of cold rain dripping down on him ... hear the claps of thunder as angry clouds boiled across the sky. He could see the cottage, with lights burning at the window and two cloaked men striding purposefully up to the front door ...  
  
"What did Voldemort say to you?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.  
  
"He told me I had done well," said Pettigrew. "He told me I would be rewarded for my service beyond my wildest dreams. I thanked him. That is all we said to one another. Well ... we blew the door in, and Voldemort led me into the house. I could ... I could hear screaming. The ground," he stopped, faltered, and for one second, Harry caught the slightest hint of a sob. "The ground floor of the cottage had small hallway, with stairs leading up ... a kitchen and scullery round to the right, and on the left, a doorway to the living room, a dining room, and James' office, when he was working at home. Voldemort told me to cover the kitchen, as he was concerned they might try to escape. I went into the kitchen, and I heard him slamming the door."  
  
Harry concentrated very hard on his shoelaces.  
  
"I could hear someone shouting. I couldn't hear what they were shouting ... the thunderclaps were becoming very frequent, the storm was right overhead at that point, then screams, and then green light flickering underneath the door, and I knew what he had done."  
  
"He had killed them?"  
  
Harry coughed again. Hermione had her arm around his shoulders ...  
  
**************  
  
"... will be convening this morning to hear the final verdict in the trial of Sirius Black. Whether or not a guilty verdict is returned, what remains certain is that this trial has opened the cupboard, and more skeletons than anyone could have imagined are tumbling out. The implications of Black's innocence would, of course, be far reaching, and potentially very damaging for the Ministry of Magic, which is already reeling from the double whammy dealt it by the collapse of investors Malfoy International Industries, which forced the Head of Magical Trade and Industry from his post only yesterday, and the news that the State Department of Magic in the US has finally bowed to public pressure following nearly a solid week of rioting, and granted retrials to forty men currently being held in Alcatraz. The Ministry has yet to decide whether or not to yield to American demands for the release of six US citizens currently held in Azkaban on charges of Dark Activity committed within the jurisdiction of the British and Irish governments. As the Ministry continues to demand the extradition of Jack and Maureen Silvermann to face charges of Dark Activity, this looks like it could easily degenerate into a full scale diplomatic war, which the Ministry seems unable to cope with. In Dublin, the Celtic Magical Council refuses to relent to British demands for access to the sacred runes held within Dun Aonghusa on the Isle of Inishmore, which would be instrumental in decoding ..."  
  
**************  
  
"Order please. This Session of the High Court of Magic is now opened."  
  
The gavel cracked down on the lectern once more, and a murmur of voices, the babbling of interested chatter filled the room as the onlookers stood up.  
  
"We are called upon at his ungodly hour to hear the verdict of the Grand Jury in the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Sirius Eamonn Black. The presiding Judge is Sir Winterbourne Strickland, the Clerk is Mr. Jackson Fyffe, the Warden of the Court is Sir Thomas Bloxham, and the High Wizard is Lord Aengus O'Docherty of Inis Fionnchuire. All Men present in this Court are bound by oath and blood to the Book of Magical Law. This is a place of truth. No lies can be told here, no falsehood can be uttered, no travesty perpetrated. This Court's decision cannot be overturned. This Court's decision is final. There can be no appeal, there can be no re-trial, and there can be no mistrial, for under the terms of the Book of Magical Law the High Court of Magic cannot be wrong. Before we advance the proceedings this morning, I must ask that anybody who questions or takes issue with these conditions be gone from this Chamber until today's proceedings close. Your name will be taken by the Law Keeper and held in the Book of Dissent ... no further admittance will be granted."  
  
A terrible, oppressive silence filled the Chamber. Nobody moved. Nobody uttered a sound.  
  
"I will take this silence as a sign that all present comply with the conditions laid forth by the Book of Magical Lore. Ladies and Gentlemen. Grand Jurors, Spectators, I bid you welcome, and I bid you take your seats."  
  
There was a rumbling sound as two thousand people sat down at once. Dumbledore had told him as they entered, not five minutes earlier, that he had never known a single session of the High Court be so crowded. Harry scanned the crowd, as had become his custom, for the Weasleys, but they did not appear to be there. And then he remembered ... today was the day Ginny was having her plasters taken off, they would be over at St. Mungo's.  
  
"Will the Foreman of the Grand Jury please make himself known to this Court?"  
  
A lone man stood up ... a short and stocky wizard with a bristling moustache and bushy beard, wearing the Juror's robes of deep purple, trimmed with gold leaf, the whole topped off with a pointed hat of truly epic proportions.  
  
"I am the Foreman of the Grand Jury."  
  
"What is your name."  
  
"Your Grace, my name is Mr. David Peabody. I am a Member of this Court, an initiate of the Circle of the Purple Star, and a merchant banker on behalf of the Gringotts Corporation."  
  
"Mr. Peabody. Please confirm to this Court that you have been selected by an impartial source."  
  
"My name was drawn from the Fountain of Truth, ten days prior to the commencement of this trial," said Peabody. "As is set down in the Book of Magical Lore, page sixteen, paragraph eight, clause two."  
  
"Thank you Mr. Peabody. This Court is now ready to hear the verdict."  
  
"Your Grace. I would presume to start my speech this morning by saying that this Jury has spent not less than sixteen hours, twenty five minutes and sixteen seconds in isolation in the Debating Chamber beneath this Court, deliberating the evidence that has been lain at our feet this past few days. The task before us has been a daunting one, for the evidence dates back fourteen years. However, such is the overwhelming balance of the evidence presented to us, that our conclusion, and thus our verdicts are clear, and unanimous. I am now in a position to deliver to you the verdict upon this most important of Trials."  
  
They watched, mouths agape as the Foreman of the Jury opened the buff coloured envelope into which the verdict had been magically sealed. The only sound in the packed Chamber was that of the rustling of the small piece of paper that he removed. He held it up to the light, as if determined to prove that it was a forgery. The Judge nodded his head.  
  
"You may proceed."  
  
Peabody took a deep breath, and coughed. From his seat in between Dumbledore and Hermione, Harry could see Sirius moving his lips frantically. It looked almost as if he was praying.  
  
"By the power vested in me as Foreman of the Grand Jury of the High Court of Magic, upon this, the 9th day of October in the year 1995, I hereby pronounce the following. In the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Sirius Eamonn Black, the Defendant was charged with the following crimes, which we shall read out in order, together with our verdicts upon them ... "  
  
Sirius closed his eyes, and gripped the bars of his cage.  
  
"Upon the charge of breaking the security of the Fidelius Charm. We find the Defendant ... not guilty."  
  
A collective sigh seemed to sweep around the Chamber. One or two people whooped, and punched the air with their arms. Peabody continued to read from his roll of parchment ...  
  
"Upon the charge of supplying information to the Dark Forces. We find the Defendant not guilty."  
  
"Upon the charge of acting to betray agents of the Ministry of Magic. We find the Defendant not guilty."  
  
"Upon the charge of acting under the influence of the Dark Lord. We find the Defendant not guilty."  
  
"Upon the charge of illegally charming a Muggle motorbike. We find the Defendant guilty as charged."  
  
"Upon the charge of the cold blooded murder of no less than twelve unarmed and unidentified Muggles. We find the Defendant not guilty."  
  
"Upon the charge of the cold blooded murder of Peter Victor Pettigrew. We find the Defendant not guilty."  
  
"Upon the charge of absconding from gaol. We find the Defendant guilty as charged."  
  
"Upon the charge of breach of the Court Order of August 26th 1993, forbidding the Defendant from human contact with Mr. Harry James Potter. We find the Defendant guilty as charged."  
  
"Upon the charge of abducting minors. We find the Defendant not guilty. That is the full verdict of this Jury. We also make the following recommendations."  
  
Harry could hear people whispering to one another in the gallery above. Sirius was leaning forwards against the bars of his cage, weeping uncontrollably. Harry felt a lump rising in his throat. He turned away, and Hermione, sensing his discomfort and relief, took him in her arms, and allowed him to bury his face in her hair.  
  
"Proceed," said the Judge.  
  
"We recommend the immediate arrest and trial of Peter Victor Pettigrew, upon listed charges one through four, and listed charge six. Effective immediately."  
  
The gallery above erupted into cheers, whoops and hollers. Harry, sitting down below, could not see what was going on. But it was obvious that Sirius could. He was beaming from ear to ear, giving people in the crowd thumbs up signs. He looked happier than Harry had ever seen him before. Several people were shouting something, and the guardsmen moved closer around the Dock, as though sensing trouble.  
  
"The Spectators will remain composed," said the Judge. "This is not a fringe theatre, and we do not encourage audience participation. Mr. Peabody, continue, if you please?"  
  
"Thank you your Grace. We recommend that Sirius Eamonn Black be released without charge or punishment for the charges upon which we find him guilty. This Jury believes that the time he has spent in Azkaban already fully warrants his actions up to this point. This Jury also indicts posthumously Mr. Bartemius Crouch, on charges of Gross and Indecent Corruption before the Court. This Jury recommends a full inquiry into the miscarriage of justice we have seen before us. This Jury recommends Sirius Eamonn Black receive adequate recompense for his time in gaol. Finally, this Jury recommends the immediate release of Sirius Eamonn Black from custody of this Court, the immediate removal of his name from the Wanted List, and the immediate striking of all offences on his criminal record committed after Friday October the 30th, 1981. That is all."  
  
The Judge consulted his notes. "By the power vested in me as Judge Presiding over the High Court of Magic, on this, the 9th day of October in the year 1995. I hereby declare the following ..."  
  
The Court held its breath.  
  
"I declare that Sirius Eamonn Black is, effective immediately, that is seven a.m. precisely, innocent of all charges. Mr. Black, you are free to leave this Court at any time you wish, without a stain on your character. I hereby declare you absolved of all charges and all blame for the events of October 31st and November 1st, 1981. I hereby grant the Jury's recommendations, and recommend that the trial of Peter Victor Pettigrew begins as soon as is possible. That is the decision of this Court, this Judge, and this Jury. On a personal note, I must thank you all for your attendance today, despite the earliness of the hour, and for your kind attendance and attention throughout the process of this trial. I hope and believe that the verdict reached is of satisfaction to a greater part of you than not. I would also like to add that it is my firm belief that a vile and calculated miscarriage of justice was perpetrated by this Court. There can be no excuse for what happened here in 1981. There can never be any excuse for the failure of a Court of Law to exact the truth and to hand down fair and just sanction to the guilty parties. It is to my sadness and dismay that it has taken so long for this miscarriage to be righted. It also gives me great pleasure to say I believe this miscarriage has now been righted in the eyes of the Law. Ladies and Gentlemen. The date is October the 9th, 1995. The time is precisely one minute past seven. I hereby declare the High Court of Magic closed. Justice has been done."  
  
The gavel struck down ... but nobody heard it strike the lectern ...  
  
The cheering was too loud ... and nobody noticed the scene unfolding on the courtroom floor either.  
  
"Peter Pettigrew, I hereby declare you under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court ..."  
  
Harry did not see the handcuffs go on, and he did not see Pettigrew's face as he was led from the Court to begin the journey north to Azkaban.  
  
This was probably just as well ...  
  
**************  
  
"... it's coming up to half past seven, you're listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network. The headlines this morning. Chanting crowds continue to surround the Ministry building in London today, demanding the immediate resignation of Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. And we can now return you to that breaking news story reported at the top of the hour; the High Court of Magic, convened under the Emergency Justice Act of 1977, today announced that Sirius Black, believed guilty of the murder of thirteen people in 1981, is in fact, innocent.  
  
The shock decision was made following an all-night session, during which the Grand Jury debated the evidence before them, much of which was intentionally hidden at the time of Black's imprisonment. The Jury returned its verdict this morning, confirming to the packed courtroom that a gross miscarriage of justice had occurred. The court not only released Mr. Black without a stain on his character, but also indicted posthumously Bartemius Crouch, on charges of corruption and bribery, and ordered the immediate trial of Peter Pettigrew, believed dead by Black's hand, but in fact merely in hiding, on the same charges Black was imprisoned for.  
  
It can now be revealed that it was Pettigrew who betrayed top flight Ministry employees James and Lily Potter to the Dark Lord in October 1981, thus inadvertently precipitating his downfall. Black, rearrested two weeks ago at Hogwarts, was released from Azkaban at dawn this morning, and has now returned home. We'll have more on that story as news continues to come in.  
  
News now of last night's mid-week Quidditch fixtures, played ahead of England's European Championship Qualifier against Austria on Saturday. In the English Premiership, the Brighton Regents maintain their ten point lead at the top of the table following last nights clash with third place team, the Chudley Cannons. The Stratford Minotaurs lost away to Hogsmeade Town, and in the Irish League, the Cork Comets beat Belfast City by three hundred and eighty points to ten ... this defeat now puts Belfast out of contention for promotion to the Pan-Britannic League next season. It was also confirmed that bottom placed team in the Welsh League; the Holyhead Angels will be relegated. In the transfer market, the Wabznasm Wanderers have now signed a two million transfer fee for Chudley Seeker Eochaid Ánchenn ..."  
  
**************  
  
As the weeks following their return from Naxcivan slipped by, Harry's life seemed as though it was not entirely his to control. It was like being in a dream. They were all swept along by the tidal wave of controversy that greeted them upon their arrival, unable to stop themselves from drowning. It was very, very confusing. Some people believed them, and some people did not. Some newspapers wrote nice things, and some vilified them. Dumbledore, to his credit, did his utmost to protect the school and its pupils from unwarranted intrusion. But Harry still read the papers ...  
  
Perhaps some people could have made out that Harry was being naïve for not twigging sooner that there was more going on with Draco's Father than he had ever had cause to previously suspect. From the articles in the papers, the whole picture suddenly became a lot clearer to his eyes. Malfoy had been an extremely powerful man ... in the Muggle world, as well as in the Magical one ... bigotry, of course, is always transcended by the power of international commerce. Malfoy had had connections ... some of them going back a long while, stakes in gun running, oil, gambling, even prostitution. If a name could be given to it, chances were that Lucius Malfoy had had a finger in that particular pie at some time or another. Nevertheless, a great many men had wanted him dead, and were no doubt gratefully relieved that he was.  
  
Of course, isolated from the furore enveloping the outside world, neither Harry, nor Draco, nor Hermione, nor Ron, had much idea of the enormous constitutional crisis they had provoked. So deeply involved with Malfoy had the Ministry been, that his loss precipitated massive political upheavals. A lot of men were forced from office ... good men, hard working men, whose only fault had been to believe Malfoy had been a legitimate businessman. Others simply walked out, unable to cope with the stress. Daily, the mob surrounded the Ministry building in Diagon Alley ...  
  
Harry had been having counselling sessions with a pleasant young Irishwoman from Saint Mungo's, whom Dumbledore had brought in especially for that purpose. Their first few sessions had not been a success at all, and Harry was feeling unusually depressed and mean spirited as he pounded the corridors of Hogwarts, heading for Gryffindor Tower.  
  
Winter was now very definitely setting in, and the first snowfalls had been reported by travellers up on the moors and fells. Nightly a chill and bitter wind blew across the mountains from the sea. Harry was thankful someone had had the foresight to light a fire in the Common Room.  
  
He flopped gratefully down into one of the huge armchairs, and slipped off his black school shoes, toasting his feet in the warm glow. There was a substantial hole in his right sock, through which his big toe was peeping.  
  
The Common Room was not especially crowded. There were a few people left, but most of them were either having dinner, or were in the Library. Harry's 'counselling' had left him tired and drained and certainly in no mood to eat.  
  
Somebody, probably Hermione, as she was the only one who bothered to keep up with the news on a regular basis, had left the morning edition of the Daily Prophet lying on the small, wooden table at Harry's side. For want of something to do, he picked it up, unfolded it, and started to read ...  
  
" ... has been in turmoil since the return of exonerated felon, Sirius Black, and his Godson, Harry Potter, from Naxcivan two weeks ago. The revelation that Sirius Black was not responsible for the murder of James and Lily Potter in October, 1981 has rocked the magical community to its foundations, and called into question some of the sentences handed down in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's downfall. Black, who is in line for up to two million Galleons worth of compensation should his lawsuit against the Ministry be successful, spent thirteen years wrongly incarcerated in Azkaban. The case may open the floodgates for anti-ministry litigation ... "  
  
Harry turned the page.  
  
"... and could cost Fudge's beleaguered administration more than thirty million Galleons in total."  
  
He flicked through the paper.  
  
" ... students at branches of the British Institute of Magic in Saint Andrews, and at Saint Nicholas' College, Oxford continued their occupation of University property in protest at Fudge's refusal to resign in the wake of what is now being termed the Dracaena Affair. Spokesmen for the students allege that Fudge was aware of the activities of Malfoy International Industries, which include drug dealing, and practicing the Dark Arts, and has been aware of this for some time, but consistently refused to act on information supplied by the IBME (International Bureau of Magical Espionage). All the assets of the Malfoy family have now been frozen, and the family's property seized by bailiffs. The Azerbaijani State Dept. of Magic continues to demand the extradition of remaining members of the Malfoy family to answer charges of Gross Corruption in Baku. It is also alleged that sixth form students at both Hogwarts and the Tipperary Academy in Eire walked out of classes in solidarity with the universities, though both schools have refused to confirm these rumours. Hogwarts is, of course, the school currently attended by Harry Potter, whose involvement in this sorry affair must surely indicate ... "  
  
Harry turned the page hurriedly. There was an 'Opinions' column on the next page ...  
  
"This sad state of affairs now marks the fifth time that the peace of this era has been disturbed by the one boy who brought the last one to its sudden and violent end, fourteen years ago. Sources close to Hogwarts claim that Harry Potter is increasingly disturbed and dangerous, both to himself and to others. Whilst cynics may claim that this is no more than the usual trauma of adolescence, the fact remains that each time it has been claimed that the Dark Lord is once more on the march, the claimants have been none other than Potter, and aged Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. I for one consider it a gross misjudgement that Dumbledore has not been removed from his post before. Dumbledore and Potter have, between them, an unsurpassed flair for fabricating stories , each one ever more ludicrous than the last, claiming that the Dark Lord is indeed, returning to power. Such stories are dangerous and subversive, and must be quashed. So agrees the Head of Archives at the Ministry of Magic, who has archived full reports on the activities of Harry Potter, provisionally entitled Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire, each written by a noted half-blood author who wishes to remain anonymous. The archives make disturbing reading. Based on Potter's (alleged) accounts of the events that transpired during the Third Task of last year's ill-fated Triwizard Tournament, it is painfully clear, even when the author has been laudably impartial, that Potter's real intention was, throughout, to sabotage the Tournament and murder the other Champions in the process. One wonders what Potter's parents would make of their son's dastardly deeds ..."  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Harry almost dropped the paper in shock. He had not noticed anybody else in the Common Room. He turned, and looked over his shoulder.  
  
"I didn't mean for you to find that," said Hermione. "You shouldn't have read it. You know they're saying horrible things ... horrible lies about you."  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah, I. I, um, read some of them," he said, his voice quavering slightly, for he was frankly, numb with disbelief that anybody could write such cruel things, when four years ago, they would have queued around the block for a two minute interview. It was sickening.  
  
"Want me to get rid of it?" asked Hermione. Without waiting for a reply, she stepped around the side of the armchair, picked the newspaper off the floor, and threw it onto the fire, where it set to burning with a satisfactory flame.  
  
"Perhaps I should write a letter," said Harry, fully aware he was trying to make a joke out of a bad situation. "That's what Muggles do. Dear Sir, bugger off! Yours, Disgusted of Hogsmeade."  
  
"How do you mean?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Write angry letters to newspapers," said Harry. "Come on, Hermione. You're more of a Muggle than I'll ever be. You must know what I mean."  
  
"I suppose so," said Hermione. "I doubt it would do any good. Besides, more press coverage is just what you don't need right now."  
  
Harry nodded his agreement. The pages of the Daily Prophet were crinkling and blackening as the flames licked at the newsprint.  
  
"You need a press officer," she said, sitting down companionably on the arm of his chair. "Someone who can issue statements and bully reporters for you. Is the post vacant?"  
  
"I think you already got it," said Harry. He wiggled his toes in his socks.  
  
"I'd chase off the paparazzi for you," said Hermione, conveniently forgetting that Harry had had eleven years experience of running very fast indeed, and had spent the last four playing Quidditch, and would therefore be more than capable of seeing off a few overweight hacks with cameras round their necks. However, she was clearly enjoying the fantasy, and so Harry didn't bother to disillusion her.  
  
Instead he said. "Thank you."  
  
"There's a hole in your sock too by the way. Did you know?"  
  
"Yeah, thanks," said Harry. "Look, I'm going to bed ..."  
  
Hermione's face fell. "You're not having any supper? I was rather hoping we could go down together ..."  
  
"I'm tired, and I'm not hungry," said Harry. "Reason enough?"  
  
"It's toad in the hole. Your favourite ..."  
  
Harry shook his head. "Toad in the hole is not my favourite, and anyway, I want to stay here," he said. "They'll start talking if I go downstairs again. They always do. I can hear them."  
  
Hermione sighed. "So, that's it, is it?" she asked. "You're scared of that bunch of ninnies talking about you? What are you, man or mouse?"  
  
"Right now? I'd rather be a mouse, thank you," said Harry, looking obstinately the other way.  
  
"Harry, you can't mope around upstairs all day. You hardly ever come out for walks with us, and you missed the last Hogsmeade weekend completely. And I understand completely why you've been bunking Divination, but Ron said Professor Trelawney has started giving you detentions for classes you haven't even cut yet ..."  
  
She was stopped in mid-flow as Harry got to his feet, and rounded on her. "Just leave me alone, okay? I'm not good company at the minute. And I want to go to bed!"  
  
He glowered at her, daring her to try and stop him, though in secret he would have liked it if she had, and then stalked off, slamming the door on his way up to the dormitory. Hermione watched him go. She knew it was a lost cause trying to talk to him when he got like this, and he had been in these moods with increasing frequency over the last couple of weeks. A terrible sadness seemed to have engulfed his body, and nobody had a clue what to do about it. Sighing, she sat down in the armchair Harry had vacated, and put her feet up in front of the fire.  
  
**************  
  
"It's ten o'clock. This is the news. Following the sentencing of Peter Pettigrew last night by the High Court of Magic, officers of the Magical Law Enforcement Service this morning staged dawn raids on addresses up and down the United Kingdom, based on information supplied by Pettigrew in his testimony. A total of fifty wizards are now in custody, and await interrogation. Also seized during the raids were up to fifty million Galleons worth of illegal potions and spell books, an amount which represents, say the MLES, only a tiny proportion of the amount of Dark Material currently in circulation in the UK.  
  
Pettigrew himself, found guilty on twenty charges, has been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss, which will be administered at Azkaban within the week, ending the fourteen year run of one of the wizarding world's most dangerous men.  
  
In other news today, the inquiry into the recent collapse of Malfoy International Industries continues in London, amidst the startling revelations that Lucius Malfoy, who died three weeks ago on his estates in Azerbaijan, used illegal narcotics distilled from the sap of the Dracaena Draco plant to control the conscious actions of his late wife, Narcissa ..."  
  
**************  
  
It was a dreary autumnal Thursday, the air heavy with the scent of decaying leaves and earth, and moist with the rain that had been falling ceaselessly, as if trying to make up for the sweltering summer.  
  
Droplets of water trickled down the windows of the office. Draco sat, slumped in a squishy leather armchair, staring out at the distant bulk of the Astronomy Tower. There was what seemed like a permanent glare etched across his face ... he was not in the mood to be talked to.  
  
The therapist, a young Irish woman called Sinead, whom Dumbledore had had brought up from London to see both Harry and Draco, checked the file that was open on her lap. She appeared to be reading medical notes. Draco had no idea what his medical notes had in them ... he had wound up in hospital a few times ... usually after one of his Father's punishments had got out of hand. As he watched Sinead poring over the text, he could see her face falling. Whatever was there did not look like appealing reading ...  
  
"What's the matter?" asked Draco. "You look upset."  
  
Sinead wiped her brow. The notes made somewhat disturbing reading. There had been over twenty admissions to casualty, most times with bad bruising, once or twice with broken bones. And each time the doctors had overlooked it. The excuses the parents had fabricated had been all too plausible, and each time the boy had backed them up. He had fallen, or he had been fighting at school, or he had banged his head in the shower. Probably the parents had been bribing him with toys, though more likely they had simply threatened him with more.  
  
"Just, reading your file," she said. Each time she came across something like this, it made her want to strangle the perpetrators. This kid should be in foster care.  
  
Draco nodded. "I see," he said, quietly.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I know," Sinead began, "that you don't want to be here. I know you'd much rather be somewhere else. But the fact is we want to help you. There is a lot of stuff, you have a lot of issues in your life, that ... well, they need sorting out, Draco. I can help you, but only if you talk to me."  
  
Draco was idly picking dirt from behind his fingernails. He had fallen from his broom during a particularly wet Quidditch practice, and had not had time to get properly showered afterwards.  
  
"Draco? Please, I would like it if you'd talk to me."  
  
"Maybe," said Draco. He was holding a biro, and taking the lid on and off repeatedly, displacement activity ... always a bad sign.  
  
"Well, I'm not going to sit here for the whole thirty minutes now, am I?" asked Sinead, trying in vain to make eye contact with Draco, who seemed to be infinitely happier staring blankly into space.  
  
"Perhaps," said Draco, his voice still irritatingly blank. Sinead sighed. This one was going to be tough. She checked her notes again, and pretended to be doing something, pretended to ignore Draco completely. It was an old trick she used when talking to kids.  
  
After about seven or eight minutes had passed, she heard the boy shifting his weight uncomfortably in the chair, and then, out of the corner of her eye, saw him lean forwards.  
  
"What you doing?"  
  
She looked up. "Like I said, reading your notes. They're quite interesting, you know."  
  
Draco squirmed, and blushed slightly.  
  
"Um, what do they say?" he asked.  
  
"They say interesting things about your Father. Why don't you tell me about your Father, Draco?"  
  
Draco picked his nails idly. "Well," he said, looking up, and at long last, making eye contact with Sinead.  
  
"There isn't much to say," he said. "I know what you want me to say. I'm not stupid."  
  
"What do you think I want you to say?" asked Sinead.  
  
"You want me to tell you that he used to beat me up," said Draco. "So as then you can be all sympathetic and make me tell you more stuff. Well, I'll tell you now, he did. That's what he did. That's how I'll remember him."  
  
"Can you tell me why you got onto that line of, well, of conversation?" asked Sinead. "I hadn't actually asked you anything."  
  
Draco shrugged.  
  
"I don't want you to tell me things that you think I want to hear," said Sinead. "It does neither of us any favours. If the conversation had got onto that topic, yeah, sure I'd have asked you more questions about it. As it is, you're being quite resistant. Would you like to tell me why you think that is?"  
  
"Father always said it was silly," said Draco.  
  
"What was?"  
  
"Talking to shrinks, talking about what I feel. He said it was silly and stupid and childish and weak," said Draco, barely pausing for breath.  
  
"Not weak at all," said Sinead. "You've already proven to me that you're a very brave and courageous boy," she caught the look on his face, " ... young man, sorry, for coming in here and agreeing to talk to me in the first place. You know you didn't have to. You had the choice. And both of you came ..."  
  
"Both of us?"  
  
"You and Harry, I've been talking to Harry too ..."  
  
"What about?" asked Draco.  
  
Sinead tapped the side of her nose. "There is such a thing as a doctor patient code," she said. "Telling you what Harry said to me would violate that, and it would violate his confidence, and the trust he placed in me by talking. And you've placed that trust in me as well. Harry was very happy to talk, he's a very brave kid. I enjoyed talking to him. I'd like to enjoy talking to you too, because I think you have interesting things to say to me. But we can talk about whatever comes up ... if you're thinking about, oh, a new broomstick or something, I'm quite happy to talk about that, and equally if you want to delve into the inner recesses of your psyche, and discuss Freud and Jung, that's okay too," she leant forwards, then added conspiratorially. "In fact, I'd be happy to, Dumbledore's paying me by the hour."  
  
"Who's Freud then?" asked Draco.  
  
"Famous shrink," said Sinead. "Austrian, he's been dead about fifty five years now, but he had some good ideas. Not ones I necessarily subscribe to, but interesting ones, nonetheless."  
  
"Like?"  
  
"There's a thing called the Oedipus complex," she said, and then thought, but did not say aloud, 'And if I tell you what it is, you might just kill yourself.'  
  
"Oh," said Draco. "That sounds nice."  
  
"Depends how you look at it," said Sinead, who had met Narcissa Malfoy at the 'Midnight in the Garden' charity fundraiser for Saint Mungo's earlier in the year, and was trying very hard not to laugh at the thought.  
  
"Anyway, your old Dad was evidently quite an influence on your life," she said. "Now, you must be able to remember some good times ..."  
  
Draco smiled. "He used to take me riding," he said. "All round the estate, we went for miles, we had lots of little bridleways, and winged horses too. He used to talk to me then. Tell me about how the business was going, tell me I ought to be keeping up with my studies."  
  
"You liked horse riding?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Don't suppose I'll be able to do it anymore," he said.  
  
"Why not? There are horses here, at Hogwarts ..."  
  
"I liked my horse," said Draco. "His name was Nero ... but the Ministry took him back, when they took everything else."  
  
"Can you think of anything else?" asked Sinead.  
  
Draco nodded. "He taught me to row," he said. "And he taught me to play the piano too. I was never any good at it. My hands aren't right," he added. "That was good ... till I got something wrong."  
  
"Carry on."  
  
"If I got things wrong, he'd punish me. If I did one little thing, one note out of place while I was playing, or if I caught a crab in the boat, or if Nero threw a shoe when we were riding," he paused. Even reliving the memory was too much. He could still feel every blow, every shouted threat, he was still living through every moment of deprivation.  
  
"How did he punish you then?" asked Sinead. "Are we talking a rap on the knuckles here?" she stopped, catching the expression on Draco's face. "We're talking more than that, aren't we?"  
  
Draco nodded. Sinead bit her bottom lip, and grimaced. It was always very hard for kids in Draco's situation to admit what had happened to them, that was understandable. She was still, technically, a complete stranger. But it was always the same, whenever they got onto this, and she had seen it with Harry too, the previous night, the child always went pink round the ears, or hung their head or looked away, and this was what Draco did now. It made her want to throttle somebody.  
  
"How often?"  
  
Draco looked up slightly. "Not often," he said. "But often enough. Often enough for it to matter."  
  
"And what did he do? Did he just hit you, or did he use things ..."  
  
"Things," repeated Draco, staring very hard at his brightly polished shoes. "And a bit of both. He used to carry a whip around with him."  
  
"A whip? He used that?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Or a riding crop ... he'd have this thing, ten with the crop, or five with the whip. I'd usually go for the whip ... quicker," he added.  
  
"I see," Sinead scribbled something down on her notepad, and tried to keep smiling, remembering how very important it was for Draco not to feel pressured at this point. "Did anybody ever see him do this to you?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Not usually," he sniffed, grimacing. "He'd usually send Mother out of the room first. I think she was scared of him too. Once or twice somebody walked in ..."  
  
"Tell me what happened ..."  
  
"I don't remember what I'd done," said Draco. "I must have been about ten, about a year or so before I went to Hogwarts. But we were in the study, and he was giving me a lecture, and I must have said something wrong, and he hit me round the face, and I fell over backwards, and banged my head on the desk ... he ... he was standing over me, and he kicked me in the stomach. Then some other guy came in, one of the dinner guests or something, and he saw us, but my Father made like he was just tickling me."  
  
He looked away.  
  
Sinead said. "I can see from your notes that you were taken to hospital several times. It says here you claimed you fell over ... that wasn't true, was it?"  
  
"He said he'd do it again if I told," whined Draco. "I didn't want that stuff to keep happening to me, so I did as he said. And he used to buy me stuff, like sweets and new brooms if I kept quiet."  
  
"Did he punish you in any other ways?" asked Sinead. A sudden burst of noise ... chairs scraping across floors interrupted their talk as the entire school decamped to the Great Hall for lunch.  
  
Draco was nodding. "He used to lock me in my room, not give me food," he said, his eyes burning up through the sheer effort of not crying.  
  
"I see," said Sinead. She raised her hand to stop Draco from speaking further ... even she could tell they had gone far enough for one day, and she said so. "You need to go get some lunch ... and I think we've had enough for our first session."  
  
Draco looked up. "You do?"  
  
"We could carry on."  
  
"No ... no, it's okay," said Draco, forcing a smile.  
  
"Draco ... I know, I've spoken to lots of other children, and what you have been through isn't as rare as you might think. There are plenty of other people who endured just what you did, maybe worse, and they turned out fine, Wizards and Muggles alike. That's the whole point of therapy, to sort out this kind of thing. I've spoken to so many abused kids, that I know all about this kind of thing. Nothing you can say can shock me, Draco," she lied, slightly, but it was a white lie, so Draco didn't kill her. "So ... I want you to feel like you can tell me whatever you want. You already know I won't tell anybody anything of what you've said without your permission first."  
  
Draco nodded. "I understand," he said.  
  
"So ... I'd, well, I think you've been very honest with me today, and I also think you've been very brave, and so I want to thank you for speaking with me, and for letting me try to help you."  
  
They both stood up ... Draco was staring at his feet ... his shoes were so brightly polished that his face was reflected quite clearly in them. For a moment, he looked at her. Sinead had a feeling she knew what was going to happen ... she had seen it so many other times. The first session was always an emotional marathon, and more often than not, they left drained. She had been silently waiting for it to happen for the last hour ... she had suspected that Draco was merely projecting his confident air. A tear trickled down one of his flushed cheeks.  
  
"It's okay," she said. "It's not your fault."  
  
She could tell he was trying desperately not to let himself cry, and she wished he would stop trying.  
  
"It's not your fault. Nothing is your fault."  
  
Draco choked, slightly.  
  
"It is not your fault."  
  
Draco sniffed again, then he started to cry properly, and the floodgates opened, and Sinead suspected he had never cried with such bitterness and conviction. She knew the thing to do, took him in her arms, and let him let out as much as he wanted to. He buried his face in the fluffy material of her cardigan.  
  
"Doesn't this violate the doctor patient code?" he sniffed, as she rubbed his back.  
  
"Only if you try and touch my bottom," she whispered back.  
  
**************  
  
Draco walked. He did not know where it was he was going, and nor did he have the remotest idea what he was going to do when he got there. The only thought in his mind was to get as far away from the castle as possible. The stone walls seemed to close in on him as he moved swiftly through the corridors. He crossed the courtyard, cobbles slick with rain, just as the clock tower struck one, and then he broke into a run. He could feel the wind whipping at his hair, and the sting of the rain on his face. His robes billowed out behind him as he went, his feet crunching on the gravel driveway.  
  
He was weak; he was a stupid, weak baby! He couldn't even bring himself to tell a bloody shrink how he was feeling, how much it hurt merely to be him, merely to have had to live his life over the past few weeks. He couldn't even tell her a basic truth without breaking down and mewling like a newborn.  
  
His tears mingled with the rain on his face ... and the wind cut through his skin like a knife. He slowed his place, and slouched through the wet grass ... down the path leading to the Quidditch pitch. The Gryffindors were meant to be practicing there that lunchtime, but there was no sign of them yet. Perhaps the weather had forced Harry to cancel it. Whatever the reason was, the stadium was deserted. Draco tried to imagine it full of people, baying for blood, for victory, as it had been two weeks ago, during the Quidditch game.  
  
He remembered with a shiver of fright, the letters he had written to his Father, explaining why he had not beaten Harry, explaining how desperately sorry he was, and how much better he would do next time. Now he did not have a Father's expectations to live up to any more ... he could win or lose at his leisure. So why did he care more now about winning, than he had done before? To beat Harry ... just once, might make it all seem more worthwhile. But he had not beaten Harry, ... the Gryffindors had won, and it was even worse now than before.  
  
He remembered the letter his Father had sent him on the awful, awful day in the Third Year when he, Crabbe and Goyle had dressed as Dementors in an attempt to sabotage Harry's flying ... it had been horrible ... and even now, nearly two years later, those words were imprinted on his mind. And when he had got home for the Easter break, his Father had been waiting for him on the steps to the mansion, holding his whip in his hands, and Draco knew what that meant ...  
  
He continued walking, leaving the rickety wooden stands far behind him, he barely noticed his footsteps were leading him in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, indeed, the fact only registered as he was about to step inside it. The Forest was out of bounds to all students, without exception, and the only person who went in there with anything approaching regularity was Hagrid, but he was likely to be inside his hut, staying out of the cold, on a day like today. Draco took a deep breath, and stepped into the woods.  
  
He leant against the trunk of one of the trees ... remembering the last time he had come into the forest. He had been on a detention, McGonagall had caught him wondering around the school at midnight, trying to get Harry and Hermione into trouble. He had succeeded, he thought, maliciously ...  
  
The forest looked harmless enough. What harm could come through walking a little way inside? Draco pressed on, scrambling over the branches, thrashing through the dense and prickly undergrowth, squeezing between the trunks of the trees, which seemed to grow very close together indeed. This was not, he soon realised, a normal, pleasant wood, like the one back on the estate at home. This was forestry as God intended, harsh, spiky, and dark.  
  
Eventually, after picking his way through the thorns and brambles for some minutes, he stumbled into a small clearing, in the centre of which was a tarn, enclosed on three sides by steep rock walls ... the beginnings of an ancient glacier. He sat down beside it. The water was crystal clear ... he could see all the way down to the bottom. Slowly, he dipped his hand in. The water was icy cold.  
  
Much as his Father had always insisted that such pristine resources were only put there for mankind to exploit, Draco had always thought otherwise, and would probably, if events had not conspired against him, have become a fervent ecologist. This place he had found was beautiful beyond compare, and tranquil. The rain had eased off, and had left behind that pleasant, sodden, earthy smell, and the air felt fresh and cool. Draco felt able to relax a little, and for some minutes he sat beside the tarn, watching the ripples as small insects darted to the surface.  
  
As he stared at his reflection in the cool, calm waters, Draco thought back to the day that stuck in his memory the most. It had been such a trivial offence ... one most parents would have smiled indulgently at. Not his Father, however. Actually, come to think about it, he was not sure he could remember what he had done.  
  
Yes he could ... he had done something to irritate him. He had appeared to be in a good mood that day, and Draco had been playing with his brooms underneath the dining room table, after lunch. It was a few days after Christmas, and they were finishing off the remains of the turkey. He must have made too much noise, or something, or maybe his Father had been feeling particularly vindictive ...  
  
He had been hauled out from under the table by his hair, screaming ...  
  
"What do you think you're doing, boy?"  
  
Draco wrung his hands. "Nothing, Father," he moaned. "I wasn't doing nothing."  
  
"I was not doing anything," corrected his Father, yanking sharply on Draco's long hair. Draco yelped again. "That is a lie for a start. Does your insolence know no bounds?"  
  
"I ... I don't know ... I don't know that word yet!"  
  
"Then you should," snarled his Father. "Look it up, in the dictionary," Draco, who was now sitting on the polished wooden floor, tried to scramble away. "Afterwards, stupid child. Narcissa ... leave us."  
  
Draco watched as his Mother stood up, giving her son not even a casual glance, and swept out of the room.  
  
"Sorry, Father," said Draco.  
  
"Do stop snivelling, boy," his Father said. "I will not tolerate insolence under my roof, and I will not tolerate pathetic children, either."  
  
"What did I do?" asked Draco.  
  
His Father ignored the question ... of course, he had never needed a reason.  
  
"Your behaviour this Christmas has been reprehensible. You have been continuously rude and churlish towards our guests. If you are not careful, I shall take away your presents."  
  
Draco grabbed onto his Father's trouser legs. "No ... don't do that," he sniffed. "I'm sorry."  
  
"What is more, you have been stealing food again. When I expressly forbade you should have any."  
  
Draco played his cute card ... the one that worked very well if he wanted biscuits from the servants. He curled himself up, and did a mournful look. It did not work. His Father raged. "You persist in this stupidity!" he yelled. "If I am punishing you, I do not expect you to deliberately flout the sanctions I have laid down against you!"  
  
"Daddy ... I ... I was hungry."  
  
He was struck, hard, across the face. "Never, ever call me that!" his Father roared. Draco cowered suitably.  
  
"Sorry, Father."  
  
"That's better. However, the fact remains that your normal punishments are evidently not deterrent enough. How old are you now, Draco?"  
  
"Six?"  
  
"I suppose I should at least be grateful you can count higher than five," said his Father. Draco smiled, assuming this meant he was off the hook. It did not. He looked up ... his Father was wrapping something around his hand. Draco's heart sank.  
  
"Stand up."  
  
"Please don't, Father. I said sorry. I won't never do it again."  
  
It was too late. Draco found himself being hauled to his feet. He had a runny nose and his new green robes were hanging limply from his shoulders. He closed his eyes so that he did not have to see the blow coming. And then the next one, and the next. Draco screamed, and his Father clamped his hand over his mouth to stop him.  
  
"Be quiet, damn you! Can't you just keep your mouth shut."  
  
Draco snarled, and tried to bite his hand, but his Father moved it away in time. "How dare you even think about hitting back!"  
  
"Leave me alone!" yelled Draco, his chest and back burning where the whip had struck home. He tried to kick him in the shins, but his Father put his hand calmly on the child's head to restrain him.  
  
"You disgust me, Draco. I do this not out of hatred for you, but that you might learn to be a better person!"  
  
"Father ... I don't like it," sniffed Draco, dropping to his knees, and trying to grab his Father round the knees. "Please stop!"  
  
His Father roared, and flung him halfway across the room, striking the back of his head against one of the legs of the dining table. Draco picked himself up. He could see his Father advancing on him, winding the whip around his hand again. He tried to scramble away, beneath the table, but he could feel his hand on the back of his robes ... dragging him backwards ... he tried to grab at the floor, but there was nothing to grab onto. He screamed again.  
  
"How dare you defy me? After all I have done for you!"  
  
The whip cracked again, and Draco, who was curled up on the floor, quaking through floods of repressed tears which kept threatening to assert themselves, as his Father went to work.  
  
He had not known that two of the maids and the cook had been listening outside the doors. They turned away, wringing their hands in despair. There was nothing they could do if they valued their positions.  
  
Draco dug his fingers into the soggy earth, and he scooped up a handful, and flung it away into the bushes.  
  
"Damn," swore Draco. "Stop thinking about it, you silly arse."  
  
Somewhere amongst the trees, a twig snapped in half, as if someone had broken it. Draco jumped. Was somebody watching him? He had heard rumours about the things that lived in the forest; troupes of horrible man eating spiders, centaurs, and classic cars running wild.  
  
He turned to see who it was. But could see nobody. He went back to staring at his reflection. There was a mole just below his right eye that he had not really ever had cause to notice it, and so absorbed was he in staring at it, that he barely noticed the other person who sat down next to him.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco looked over. A second face was reflected in the waters of the tarn. A crimson leaf dropped into the water, and through the ripples he caught a fleeting glimpse of dark, untidy hair, framing a pale face with green eyes ...  
  
"What do you want?" he huffed.  
  
Harry's reflection looked offended. "Oh," he said. "I quite often come down here these days ..."  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah?" he said.  
  
The reflection nodded. "Yeah," said Harry. "It's nice, peaceful. I like peaceful things."  
  
"You didn't follow me?" asked Draco. Reflection Harry brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and then he shook his head, slowly.  
  
"Course not," he said. "I had to cancel Quidditch practice ... the pitch is all waterlogged. So I thought I'd go for a walk ..."  
  
"And you really came down here to talk Quidditch?" asked Draco quietly.  
  
Harry shook his head again. "No," he said. "But since you asked what I was doing, I told you the truth ..."  
  
"Wish it was that simple ..."  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"Telling the truth," said Draco, picking up a small stone, and hurling it into the water, where it startled some fish. "I just spent half an hour telling that bloody shrink the truth, so why do I still feel like crap?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "Dunno. You think there's so little truth to tell about you that you would feel better after half an hour?"  
  
Draco glanced up and around at Harry, who was sitting on a mossy boulder just behind him, his hands wrapped around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He was wearing his Quidditch robes, and looked quite cold. There were goose pimples rising all over his bare shins. "You taking the piss?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "Nope," he said.  
  
"I think I see what you meant, anyway," said Draco. "Too much stuff has happened."  
  
"Yes, that's about the shape of it," said Harry. "What did you think of her? Are you going back?"  
  
Draco nodded. "She gave me another appointment on Thursday," he said. "What about you?"  
  
"Yeah, the same," said Harry, idly. "Um, if you don't mind me asking, what did she ask you about?"  
  
"That violates the patient doctor code," said Draco, haughtily.  
  
"I'm not a doctor," answered Harry. "Look, it's just, I was all depressed after I spoke to her last night. We went over some stuff that I thought was dead and buried. I want to know if I can help you ..."  
  
"Why would you want to help me?" asked Draco, looking up into Harry's eyes.  
  
"Because you helped us," said Harry. "You do know the easy thing, the soft option would have been to kill Ron, back in that castle, and turn your life over to Voldemort. You didn't take that option. You put your arse on the ..."  
  
"Spare me the sodding heroics!" snapped Draco, turning his face away. If there was one thing he did not want to hear, it was people trying to tell him how brave he had been.  
  
"You'll need to get used to the hero business," began Harry, toying with a broken willow stick lying on the ground. Draco sensed what he was going to say next, and jumped in before he could say it.  
  
"If you dig any deeper into that hole, you'll end up in Australia. Don't be bigheaded, Potter. People don't think you're a hero, not any more. I read the papers as well, you know."  
  
"I don't bother," said Harry. "Same old same old, if you see what I mean."  
  
"You sound different," said Draco, in a mildly interested tone of voice. He stretched out his hands on either side of them, running his fingertips through the mossy carpet. "I wonder why that should be?"  
  
"Don't change the subject," said Harry airily.  
  
"Oh, no, I wasn't," said Draco, snickering slightly. "You sound huskier. That's all."  
  
"Fine time to bring it up," said Harry. "Hey, perhaps it means I'll have more of a chance with Hermione."  
  
Draco scowled. Even though the few brief moments he and Hermione had shared together were now in the past, a day did not go by when he did not relive them in the cinema of his imagination. Whatever had happened in Naxcivan to drive a wedge between them, however much he tried to kid himself that there had ever been anything more than a few brief, stolen kisses, the fact remained that since their return she had not been nearly as keen on him as she had been before. Nevertheless, he still felt obligated to say something ...  
  
"Says you," he muttered. No! Damn it! Arsehole! His conscience waved at him, and stomped its feet in anger.  
  
"Sorry?" said Harry. "Are you two still ... um?"  
  
Draco shook his head, and his conscience gave up on him, and started banging its head repeatedly against the inside of Draco's skull. "No, no," he said. "Over, I think. I tried to talk to her this morning, she seems to switch off whenever she gets near me. Probably a girl thing."  
  
Harry understood. "Oh well," he said. "Sorry," he added, though he made it perfectly clear in his tone and the expression on his face, which Draco could see clearly reflected in the pond, that he was not sorry at all. In the slightest.  
  
"Treat her well, Potter. She deserves the world," said Draco, getting to his feet. Harry followed suit.  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"Meaning, dunderhead, that she deserves more than I can give her. Even though I am damn good looking, and have very sexy hair, I can't give her anything anymore."  
  
"What do you mean?" repeated Harry.  
  
"You've got money," said Draco, bitterly. Harry chortled.  
  
"Is that it?" he said. "And what about all the loot you've got stashed away in private bank accounts?"  
  
Draco turned to face Harry. "No," he said. "No ... I don't have any account anymore. They're not letting us keep a Knut of it. Not even the trust funds."  
  
"Trust funds ... whose done what now?" asked Harry.  
  
"The Ministry have confiscated everything," said Draco. "All the money, all the land, the house has been sequestered ... all my stuff is gone. I've got absolutely bugger all to my name. Technically, I can't even afford to go to Hogwarts anymore," he paused, frowning at Harry for all he was worth. "Happy now? I'm as poor as a Weasley, if you'll pardon the crap simile. I'm in a bad mood. Will you leave me alone now?"  
  
He made as if to walk out of the clearing, but Harry blocked his way, standing in front of him and drawing himself up to his full height, which from where Draco was standing, was not especially impressive.  
  
"Let me tell you something first," he said.  
  
"Out of the way, Potter," snarled Draco.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Uh, no," he said. "No, no, no. You're not walking out of here, until I make a few things clear about me. I would instantly ... I mean instantly go halves on that money in my vault with Ron, if he'd let me. This isn't about who has what, or who has how much of what. This is about something we all went through, something that nearly killed us all. If Hermione chose between her suitors based on who had the most cash ... that'd reflect pretty poorly on her, don't you think?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "I really don't care for this," he drawled. "Out of my way, please ..."  
  
"Just let me get that straight ..." began Harry, but Draco lashed out and shoved him rudely against a tree trunk. "Wait a minute!"  
  
"I know you just came out here to taunt me," snapped Draco. "I know you feel absolutely nothing, Potter. I've read those articles, and God help me I know they aren't true, I know they're a pile of unadulterated dragon dung from start to finish. But you know something? I'm really starting to believe them. Time to wake up, Potter. Not everybody wants to toe your nice little line ... not everybody wants to be your friend. And not everybody wants to worship the ground you walk on. Now I'd leave yourself five minutes before coming after me, otherwise I'll hex you, so help me I will!"  
  
Harry watched him go, disappearing into the dense thickets. And then he stomped his foot.  
  
"Damn!" he yelled. Somewhere in the trees overhead, a starling took fright and flew off. Harry turned round, and walked back to the pool, kicking up clods of earth and decaying leaves with his feet. He sat down on his patch of moss again, and looked at his reflection in the pool.  
  
"Damn."  
  
**************  
  
Harry's bad mood did not lift for the rest of the day. He went through his afternoon classes paying the bare minimum of attention necessary to get through the lessons, and afterwards, wolfed his dinner alone at the Gryffindor table, not talking to anybody, not even Ron or Hermione. Then he disappeared to the Library for a couple of hours, and then he went to bed, a lot earlier than usual, pleading tiredness.  
  
Sirius had planned to take the next day, which was a Friday, off, so that he could take Harry house hunting. Dumbledore had at first been sceptical about giving him permission for this. He thought it would probably be best for Harry to re-establish himself in a workaday routine as quickly as possible, without pressures or problems from the outside world getting to him, and for this reason, had cancelled Harry's subscription to the Prophet, which meant he had to read Hermione's copy. He believed it would be best for the boy to have some semblance of order back in his life. He had been observing Harry very closely ever since their return from Naxcivan, and to him, it looked as though the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was uppity, rude and surly in lessons, and seemed to be getting into a lot more trouble. Three detentions in the space of a week ... and none of them from Snape. It couldn't be normal.  
  
Nevertheless, there was something in the very unique way that Sirius was able to do puppy dog eyes that made him relent, and so Tuesday morning found Sirius and Harry in the small Surrey village of Wabznasm, having travelled down via Floo Powder.  
  
Wabznasm was little more than a few dots on the map, just off the main road between London and Portsmouth, not far from the little town of Leatherhead. It was distinctive, however, in that it was one of only six wholly magical communities in Britain, and what was more, it was the village in which Sirius had grown up. He had not seen it in nearly fifteen years.  
  
The clouds of the past few days had lifted, and the sunshine had returned, though it was still cold. They had drinks in a secluded pub down a side street to warm up, before heading over to meet the owners of the house Sirius was interested in.  
  
The house in question turned out to be a ramshackle old tied cottage in the grounds of the local manor, which was owned by a prominent member of wizard society. However, the cottage was occupied by an elderly artist couple; a Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, who now wanted to sell it.  
  
They were waiting by the front gate as Sirius and Harry toiled up the hill towards the cottage.  
  
"Morning," they greeted each other formally, and Harry found himself shaking hands with two very old people who smelled somewhat of camphor oil. They were ushered into the house, and plied with tea and biscuits.  
  
"You'll like it here," Mr. Shaw said, as Sirius drained his second cup of Lapsang Souchong. "It's very peaceful, and the price isn't exactly extortionate. We just want to be able to get a little place down on the coast, nothing fancy."  
  
"You're certainly not asking much," said Sirius. "That's ... um, partly why I decided to have a look at it. That and I used to live in these parts myself."  
  
Mr. Shaw showed not a hint of surprise at this. "Well," he said, after a short pause. "It's a prime piece of unreal estate, and we're very handy for the shops, and London as well."  
  
"It's a lovely old building. It used to be part of the manor ... in fact, legend has it that there's a tunnel connecting it to the big house ..." Mrs. Shaw cut in.  
  
"Is there?" asked Sirius.  
  
Mrs. Shaw shook her head, and tidied away a pile of pewter cauldrons. She was going blind in her old age, so this was more difficult than it sounded. There were buns baking in the oven. "We lived here sixty years," she said. "And we never found it. The legend goes that the Lord of the manor kept a ... " she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone " ... kept a mistress here. All that is known is that one day, just before Christmas, in the year 1782, he took his own life. There is a priest hole upstairs though."  
  
"What's a priest hole?" asked Harry.  
  
Mrs. Shaw looked grateful to have someone to talk to. "Back, many hundreds of years ago, when we went from being a Catholic nation to a Protestant one, there was a lot of confusion, with people being told to be Catholic one day, and Protestant the next. A lot of the Catholic priests who didn't want to convert had to go into hiding, and many houses and churches have priest holes, where they hid for months on end. For whatever reason, the Lord of the Manor thought the Catholics would win, and so he had hiding places built in this cottage," she paused, the slightly distant look on her face giving the impression that she had been there when it happened. "They say the army came one night, late it was, and found two priests hiding in the cottage. They were taken away, and nobody knows what became of them ..."  
  
Harry tried to imagine soldiers beating down the solid oak door, turning over tables and chairs, and waking whichever poor souls had lived there. It seemed very far off when he was sitting at the kitchen table, with a clock ticking loudly somewhere else in the building.  
  
He became aware that Mrs. Shaw was looking at Sirius strangely. Finally, she said. "You're that man in the newspapers, aren't you?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Ah ... yes, you've rumbled us," he said. "Sorry," he added.  
  
Mrs. Shaw did not seem to mind at all. "It's lovely to meet you, Mr. Fudge. Is this your son?"  
  
Sirius looked at Harry, and then at Mrs. Shaw, and then he nodded. "Yes, I suppose he is," he said.  
  
"Now, he looks familiar too. He has a familiar face."  
  
Harry hastily smoothed his hair down, obscuring his forehead. "Yes ... um, very familiar indeed," he said. "Ought we to see the rest of the house now?"  
  
"Capital idea," said Mr. Shaw, who had been leaning against the doorframe, whittling something with a vicious looking knife. He gave Harry and Sirius a sly grin as he led the way.  
  
They followed the Shaws out of the kitchen, and down the narrow, tiled hallway. There was an old Silver Arrow leaning up against the wall, as well as several other broomsticks, that looked as though they were used for more mundane tasks ... like sweeping. Harry had heard the Silver Arrow referred to in hushed tones of awe.  
  
"Did you used to fly?" he asked, as they climbed the creaky wooden staircase.  
  
Mr. Shaw nodded. "Yes," he said. "Still do, of an afternoon. I used to play Quidditch for the Winchester Harriers. I won the League on that broom, back in 1956. You play at all?"  
  
Harry nodded. Sirius said. "He's excellent ... house team at Hogwarts ..."  
  
"Really, which house?"  
  
"Gryffindor," said Sirius. "Like me."  
  
Mr. Shaw nodded, and turned around, and Harry could have sworn he winked at him. Then he said. "I was a Hufflepuff, myself. You'd better watch your head. Low beam. And I'm thinking of selling the broom on, so if you know anybody who'd be interested in buying. That's practically an antique. Would fetch a lot, if I got it repaired and such, new twigs, new handle ..." his words trailed off into the ether.  
  
They ducked under the beam, which had horse brasses nailed to it. The staircase bent round to the left, before opening onto a tiny landing, with barely enough room to turn around. It reminded Harry of the Burrow.  
  
There were four doors, one of which opened onto another staircase, another of which opened onto a tiny bathroom, and two bedrooms. Harry opened one of the doors, and stepped inside, ducking again to avoid the low lintel ... Elizabethans had plainly been much shorter people, and he found himself in a small, round room, with windows looking out over the back garden. There was a little pond, a small lawn, still with a table and chairs on it, and large weeping willows providing shade. The room itself was being used to store trunks and tea chests full of dusty books.  
  
"I call this room," said Harry.  
  
"I doubt you'd get much competition," said Sirius.  
  
Mr. Shaw winked. "Wait till you see the attic room," he said. "Come upstairs, I'll show you."  
  
Mrs. Shaw excused herself to go and put the kettle on for more tea, while Mr. Shaw led them both up the second flight of stairs. There was a single alcove set into the wall, containing one tallow candle, which burst into flame as they passed it. There was a single door, right at the top of the stairs, which Mr. Shaw pushed open.  
  
"It used to be our boy's room," he said. "But he ... um, moved out many years ago. We didn't like to move his things, just in case he came back."  
  
Harry got the feeling Mr. Shaw was not telling them the whole story, but the old man's eyes were filling with tears, so he decided not to press the point, and stepped up into the room.  
  
It was not large, but it was jammed packed full of amazing things. There was a bed in one corner, with a faded purple bedspread draped over it. Tacked to the walls were Quidditch posters, dating back to the Sixties and Seventies. The gasp Sirius gave told Harry that those alone were collectors items, and hanging from the ceiling was an entire Quidditch team, dangling on bits of string, all seven players bent forwards, flying into a headwind. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the model aeroplanes; Spitfires and Messerschmitts doing battle with one another.  
  
There were two small, grimy windows, through which shafts of sunlight were falling, and ranged about the room were more cardboard boxes, containing hundreds of books, some of which Harry recognised as Muggle ones. He picked up a battered copy of The Hobbit ... Mr. Shaw smiled.  
  
"He always did like Muggle things," he said. "Wait till you see this ..."  
  
He strode across the room, leaving a trail of footprints in the thick dust, the bare boards creaking under his feet, and removed a canvas sheet from something standing in the corner of the room. Harry gasped.  
  
"It was his pride and joy. He used to spend all day up here, when he was home from Hogwarts, just playing with it."  
  
It was a model railway. But what a model! It had everything ... tiny villages, lovingly built, with roads linking them, and tiny Matchbox cars on the roads. There were hills and fields with little plastic cows in them, even a lake, made out of blue cellophane. And winding through it all was the railway. Harry had never had a model railway, although Dudley had, and he was entranced by it.  
  
"He used to like crashing the trains," said Mr. Shaw. Harry could imagine it. "Well," he said. "I'll leave you two to talk it over. I'll give you a shout when the tea's brewed."  
  
He turned, and walked over to the door. Harry looked up from the railway, and said. "What did happen to your son?"  
  
Mr. Shaw turned. "Well," he said. "Bernie has been with God now ... for about fifteen years."  
  
He left the room, and they heard his thumping footsteps receding down the stairs.  
  
"You shouldn't have asked that," scolded Sirius. "That was rude."  
  
Harry didn't reply, he had turned his attention back to the railway. "I wonder if it still works?" he asked.  
  
"You'll have plenty of time to find out," said Sirius.  
  
Harry looked up, a grin spreading across his face for the first time in ages. "You mean you're going to buy it?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "But of course," he said. "It's just big enough for the two of us ... with room for expansion if more come along. Why, you don't like it?"  
  
"I love it," said Harry, almost choking with excitement. He had been waiting for this moment since that brief, glorious hour eighteen months earlier, when he had believed with all his heart than he would be going to live with Sirius, and finally escape the clutches of the Dursleys. For a moment, he just stood there, and Sirius evidently sensed the happiness pouring off him, for he smiled indulgently.  
  
"Can this be my room?"  
  
"If you want," said Sirius. "I fell in love with this house the moment I first saw it," he went on. "And now I don't think I want anything more."  
  
Harry cast his eyes about the room again. He fancied he could hear another boy shouting, a boy long forgotten by everyone ... playing with his friends, on the railway, smashing trains, curled up under the eiderdown with a book and a bag of sweets, reading by the light of a wand. For a moment, his eyes met Sirius' and his Godfather looked hurriedly away.  
  
"What's up?"  
  
"Nothing," said Sirius. He sat down on the bed, and beckoned for Harry to join him. Harry crossed the room, and sat down. The bedsprings sagged under their combined weight.  
  
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he said. Harry raised his eyebrows.  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
"Perhaps I should show you," said Sirius. He delved into one of the inner pockets of his robes, and withdrew a small box, which looked like it was covered in red velvet. "You can tell me what you think."  
  
"What is it?" repeated Harry.  
  
Sirius merely grinned at him, and flicked open the lid. Then he handed the box to Harry. Inside was an engagement ring. A band of shining gold, with a small diamond set into it. It sparkled in the light.  
  
"It's beautiful," said Harry. "Is that a real ..."  
  
"Diamond? Yes," said Sirius. "So, what do you think."  
  
"Well," said Harry, closing the box. "I'm flattered, and all. But I really don't think it would work out, what with the age gap ... and the same sex thing ..."  
  
"Don't be a silly arse," said Sirius. "It's for Gwyneth ..."  
  
Harry's face fell. "Oh."  
  
"Is there something wrong?" asked Sirius, looking at Harry with something approaching concern in his eyes.  
  
Harry wanted to say yes ... there is something wrong. She's all wrong for you, he thought. She just cares about her job, and she's mean spirited, and grouchy, and I can't stand her, and if you two got married and lived together, I might just as well stay with the Dursleys. However, he kept quiet.  
  
"Is there something wrong?"  
  
"No, nothing," said Harry blankly. "Congratulations."  
  
Sirius smiled, and took back the ring, slipping it into his pocket again. "I'm glad you approve," he said. "I wouldn't want you to feel threatened, or anything. You know I wouldn't ask her if you weren't happy with the idea of us living together ..."  
  
"No, it's fine," lied Harry. Up until a moment ago, he had thought that he and Sirius would live happily in this tiny cottage, a life of bachelordom, with nobody to get them to clear up ... and now that illusion was shattered into a million tiny pieces.  
  
"When are you going to ..."  
  
"Spring the surprise on her?" asked Sirius. "I was going to take her out for a meal in London tomorrow night," he said. "My compensation came through yesterday, so I thought I'd push the boat out a bit. We'll Apparate down to Zucchabar's, and then dancing, maybe. I thought," he added, "you might like to come along."  
  
Harry shook his head. "No," he said. "It's a private moment. I'd get in the way."  
  
"Hmm," said Sirius. "You're probably right. It needs to be something I do alone. Think of it ... fine wines, fine food ... I thought, maybe after the dessert, or how about in between courses ..."  
  
"I'm not really the right person to ask," said Harry. "When's the wedding?"  
  
"No point in putting it off for long," said Sirius. "Depending on whether or not she says yes, of course ..." his words trailed off. "When do you think we should have it."  
  
"Whenever," said Harry, without enthusiasm.  
  
"I thought, roundabout Christmas time," said Sirius, grinning inanely to himself.  
  
"Lovely," said Harry, even though he didn't mean it.  
  
The Shaws called them down for more tea at that point, and so they stood up, and, Harry trailing behind Sirius, scuffing his shoes purposefully across the floor, went back downstairs.  
  
**************  
  
It may have been sunny down south, but by the time they both returned to Hogwarts, later that day, the clouds had moved in again, and another rainstorm was lashing the castle. Harry reluctantly cancelled that evening's Quidditch practice, and was wandering aimlessly around, with the vague intention of heading up to Gryffindor Tower, when he turned a corner and ran straight into somebody heading the other wary, carrying a pile of papers and books, which cascaded to the floor.  
  
"Oh damn ... watch where you're going, boy!" yelled Gwyneth, stooping to pick up the books.  
  
Harry crouched down to help. "Sorry," he said. "I was a million miles away ..."  
  
Gwyneth looked up at him upon hearing the sound of his voice. "Oh, Harry," she said. "I didn't realise it was you. Quidditch practice not on, is it?"  
  
Harry was a little disturbed that the Head of Slytherin House, albeit the temporary one, seemed to know exactly when he had scheduled his practices for.  
  
"Nobody wants to fly in this weather," he said. He picked up some scattered First Year Potions assignments, and added them to the pile. He noticed, as he did so, that she had been marking very assiduously ... the essays were covered with crossings out and scrawled comments in vivid red ink.  
  
"It's a difficult class," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "We have some troublemakers in there ... damn Slytherins," she looked around conspiratorially.  
  
"You weren't a Slytherin, were you?" said Harry.  
  
Gwyneth shook her head. "No ... I thought you knew that. I was a Gryffindor. Look, are you okay? You look very washed out."  
  
"I'll be fine," said Harry. "Just need an early night ... tired."  
  
"You couldn't spare me a few minutes, could you?" said Gwyneth. "I wanted to have a word with you as it was ..."  
  
Harry was a little perturbed by this, and wondered what on earth she could possibly want, but he nodded anyway. "Okay," he said.  
  
He followed her back round the corner, the way he had come, out across the hall, and down the flight of stairs that led to the dungeons where Potions was taught. Gwyneth had commandeered Snape's office during his absence, and even though he was now back, albeit earlier than expected, he would not be making a return to teaching until after Christmas. Harry was relieved by this ... Gwyneth's teaching style did not make every lesson a picnic, but it was an improvement on Snape. Of course, the students had been told he had gone on an extended holiday, and was taking a sabbatical ... Harry knew from snatches of a conversation he had overheard whilst recovering in the Hospital Wing at the end of last term, that he had been sent to try and contact Voldemort by Dumbledore, having been a successful spy many years earlier ...  
  
Harry gave a start of surprise as she opened the door, and ushered him inside. The last time he had had any cause to visit Snape's office, he had been in very big trouble indeed, but now it seemed altogether more ... pleasant. Gone were the nasty bell jars full of preserved floating things, gone the large aquarium with ugly creatures swimming about in it, gone the boxes of dried nastiness, preserved octopi, boomslang skin and shrivelfigs. They had been replaced with Gwyneth's enormous, leather bound textbooks. A school photo from 1975 hung over the fireplace, the familiarity of the setting (the lawn down by the lake) offset by the voluminous hairstyles and the flared robes. Only Professor McGonagall, who was sitting in the front row with her handbag in her lap, did not appear to have changed a bit. Snape was standing at the back, his hair as lank and greasy as ever. Harry's eyes roved about the picture, looking for the Marauders.  
  
"Front row," said Gwyneth, sensing what he was doing. "Over by the left hand side. Here ... I'll take it down for you."  
  
She stepped round from behind the desk, and took the photograph off the wall, handing it to Harry. He set it down on the desk, and scanned it. Sirius was standing at the front, looking extremely bored, and running a hand through his ... hair. Harry snorted with laughter.  
  
"Rather bad, isn't it," said Gwyneth, peering over his shoulder. "That's your Dad, next to him, and there's Remus, and Peter," the other three were standing on Sirius' left. His Father beaming all over his face, Peter fiddling nervously with his robes, and Remus looking very pleased about something.  
  
"Have a seat."  
  
Harry sat down, and pushed the photo away.  
  
"What did you want?" asked Harry.  
  
"I just wanted to talk to you," said Gwyneth. "See how you are and such. I get worried."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"You, mainly," said Gwyneth. "The things they're writing in the papers ... but you wouldn't know what I mean, of course," Harry did not bother to correct her, "I wondered ... if I could help at all?"  
  
"How do you want to help?" asked Harry.  
  
Gwyneth sat down on the opposite side of the desk. "I don't know if you know," she said. "But I used to know your parents well. I was ... well, I was one of your Mum's friends at school."  
  
"Sirius told me," said Harry. "I knew that ..."  
  
Gwyneth looked slightly surprised. "Oh, right," she said. "Yes, well, I suppose he would have done. Listen, about Sirius ..."  
  
"You were together, I knew that too," said Harry, smiling inwardly at what he knew Sirius was planning.  
  
"I know he's been looking around for houses for you two, now that he's not on the most wanted list anymore. It's just, well, I think he might want us to get back together ..."  
  
Harry nodded. "Do you want that?"  
  
Gwyneth smiled. "Well, yes, of course," she said. "I was very much in love with Sirius, for a long time. I just, wouldn't want to do it without you being happy with the situation ..."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Well, I know we didn't see eye to eye at first," she went on, wringing her hands and making Harry feel even more awkward than he was already feeling. "And that was my fault. There were, I was ... there were some issues that I needed to resolve."  
  
"Like what?" asked Harry.  
  
"Can I be brutally honest?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
Harry nodded. "Everyone else is," he said, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice.  
  
"Yes, quite," said Gwyneth. "Harry, after your ... after your ..."  
  
"Mum and Dad?"  
  
Gwyneth nodded. "Yes, after they ... um, after they ..."  
  
"Died?"  
  
"Yes ... well ... after that thing happened. I was, well, very angry for quite some time. I didn't know what I was going to do. I was very upset, and I was very depressed, and the way I coped with that was to throw myself into my work. I was angry with your parents, and I was very angry with you ..."  
  
Harry looked up, he had been staring at his shoes. "Why?" he asked.  
  
Gwyneth shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know," she said. "I shouldn't have been. It was wrong of me to think that ... but I didn't want to know. I was angry with you for surviving when your parents were dead ..."  
  
Harry scraped his chair across the floor, and made as if to get up. Gwyneth raised a hand to calm him.  
  
"Please, Harry ... don't run out on me. I don't believe that's what your parents would have wanted ..."  
  
Harry's face cracked into a fierce scowl. "Is that it?" he asked. "Is that all this is? You're trying to lay some guilt trip on me. Why does everyone always give me this crap about what my parents would have wanted? What does anybody know what they would have wanted? They only people who could ever have known that were my Mum and Dad ... and they're gone, they're not here ... they're dead, aren't they, they're dead, and dead ... as is my understanding, means you cannot want anything any longer, because you are dead!"  
  
Gwyneth, mistakenly assuming he was finished, tried to cut in. "Harry ... please ..."  
  
Harry shook his head. "No, oh no, I'm not done. My Mum and Dad are the only people who knew ... the only people who ever knew what they wanted, you ... you try to hijack their memories, and make me do things because ... because that's what you want me to do ... and you try and blackmail me with this what my parents would have wanted ... and this ... this is a load of unadulterated rubbish. I'm sick of it. Just because it's my parents who are dead ... you all think I have to conform to what you expect out of me ... I have to live my life by your rules. Well I haven't got anybody to answer to, and maybe that's a good thing, as I have the freedom to live as I choose, and there is nobody who can stop me. I've had enough of this. I'm finished with it!"  
  
He turned, and stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. Then he broke into a run, not caring, and hardly noticing where his footsteps were taking him. He pushed his way past a gang of Slytherins, heading down to their Common Room, and took the stairs back up to the hall two at a time. He was barely conscious of where he was, until he stopped, breathless from running, at the top of the Astronomy Tower. He pushed open the door, and stepped outside.  
  
He leant back against the rough stone wall. He had half expected Gwyneth to try and come out and find him, but she did not. He would probably have liked it if she had. He would even have liked to be shouted at, to get in trouble. Perversely, the thought seemed to create a sense of warmth and well being within him.  
  
"Perhaps I do need somebody to answer to," he breathed, his exhalation condensing before his eyes. "Perhaps that's the whole point. Perhaps that's what she meant."  
  
He found himself biting his lip ... had he ruined it ... the whole thing? Gwyneth could be in tears right now, and that would be his fault. He had no wish to ruin the wedding ... no wish at all.  
  
... if I had someone to answer to, I'd be answering to them now ... then, maybe it'd be better. I want somebody to tell me off ... properly ... not like a teacher. And that isn't going to happen. So where does that leave me?  
  
Maybe being an orphan isn't all it's cracked up to be.  
  
Since returning from Naxcivan, his dreams were increasingly haunted by that last, fleeting glimpse of his parents he had ... sitting on the back of Bellerophon. And now even that image seemed to be fading. That few, brief hours that he had spent in the company of the spirits seemed less like a tangible event now, more as though, itself was a dream, or a hallucination. And these disturbing dreams had grown in frequency and intensity, so much so that more than one time in the past two weeks, he had woken up, his pyjamas and bedclothes clammy with sweat, with Ron looking over him, concerned. Harry had woken him up screaming. And every time, it was the same dream. That moment in Naxcivan, when he had opened his eyes, and found himself looking into those of a woman whom he had presumed to be dead, who, indeed, was dead ... those of his Mother, repeated itself over and over  
  
You cannot possibly know how much I need you. You cannot possibly know how much pain you have caused me. You cannot know anything about me ... for you are there, and I am here ... we cannot be together. Until I die.  
  
Maybe that's it ...  
  
It was raining again. Harry sank back against the wall, and sat down on the cold stone floor, burying his head in his arms.  
  
END OF PART TWO.  



	3. The Dreamers

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
Most of the characters, concepts and locations used in this story are the sole intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and various other publishing houses and production companies worldwide. I do not imply any rights over the characters blah blah blah non-profit making organisation blah blah home may be at risk if you do not keep up payments on a mortgage or other loans secured upon it. Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, and do not get up until the ride has come to a complete halt. Actual screen shots taken from the version you didn't buy.  
  
A NOTE ABOUT DRACO MALFOY.  
  
Ah, the Draco lovers amongst you will notice a distinct lack of our flaxen haired, leather clad chum in this part. Don't worry, he's not gone away, and he'll pop up again in Part 4. But for now, bear with Harry - he has a lot on his plate.  
  
PART THREE. THE DREAMERS.  
  
Professor McGonagall looked up from her marking. Ron stood in front of the desk. "I'm ... I'm sure it's nothing," he said. "He's probably just in the Library or something ... it's just, the Invisibility Cloak hasn't been touched ..."  
  
Professor McGonagall's head snapped up. "He uses the Cloak often?" she asked. "How often?"  
  
"Not ... as such," said Ron, sensing he was treading in a minefield.  
  
"If you think he's in the Library, then why don't you look there?" asked Professor McGonagall.  
  
Ron made expansive movements with his hands and, for a second, seemed lost for words. "Um, Hermione's checking it now," he said.  
  
"Then there's nothing to worry about," said Professor McGonagall. "He's probably just working late. Honestly, Weasley, if you are going to come hammering on my door at half past ten in a blind panic, I wish you'd think of something important to tell me."  
  
"Yes, okay," said Ron, by now desperate to get out of there. Professor McGonagall's office smelled of Earl Grey and rubber Wellingtons. "I'll go now."  
  
Professor McGonagall turned back to her work. "Capital idea," she said. She looked up again. "I'm sure he's fine, Weasley. I just haven't got the time to go chasing stray students all over the school. I suggest you go to bed."  
  
Ron nodded, then tactfully withdrew from the office. As he stepped outside into the corridor, something collided with him ...  
  
"Watch where you're going!" he snapped.  
  
"Sorry ... sorry." It was a Second Year Gryffindor Ron did not recognise. The boy extracted himself from Ron's robes, and disappeared down the corridor.  
  
"Lights went out half an hour ago!" Ron called at the boy's retreating back. Then he sighed, and turned, and headed off for the Library. He met Hermione coming the other way.  
  
"Library's empty," she said. "Madam Pince was just locking it up."  
  
"Well, where's he gone then?" asked Ron.  
  
"I don't know!" moaned Hermione. "Did you speak to McGonagall?"  
  
Ron nodded.  
  
"What did she say?"  
  
"She said, 'Go away and stop bothering me,'" said Ron. "I'm sorry, I'm useless."  
  
"You aren't useless," said Hermione. "Look, we don't have to be in bed for another half hour. You take the east wing, and I'll take the rest of the castle. He can't have gone outside ... not in this weather. I'll meet you back in the Common Room at eleven o'clock."  
  
They separated, Ron going one way, and Hermione the other. As he walked along the deserted corridors, a sense of worry was growing rapidly, gnawing at his insides. Despite Professor McGonagall's lack of anything approaching interest, he had noticed with unease that Harry had not been in his right mind lately. The things that had happened in Naxcivan had obviously had more of an effect on him than Ron had thought. He had noticed the changes in Harry's personality. He was constantly on edge, constantly snappy and rude and surly. He was getting into trouble, and he didn't seem nearly as happy as he had done. And whenever either Ron or Hermione tried to talk to him about it, he withdrew into himself, clamming up completely, and refused to speak to anybody. And his dreams were keeping the whole dormitory awake, so much so that Ron had overheard Dean talking to Seamus about whether or not they should ask for Harry to be transferred to another room.  
  
Ron paused ... without being aware of where he was going, his footsteps had led him past the Astronomy Tower, and the door, which was usually shut fast and bolted, was slightly ajar.  
  
Outside, the storm was growing in intensity. Lightning forked across the sky, and thunder followed it.  
  
Nah, he thought, Harry wouldn't be up there. Not in this weather ... not in his right mind ...  
  
He paused ... but of course, Harry was certainly not in his right mind.  
  
Looking round to check there were no teachers in the corridor, he pushed open the door, and began to climb the spiral stairs to the top. It took whole minutes to climb, and by the time he reached the highest level, the muscles in his legs were aching. As he had suspected, the door out onto the rooftop was wide open, and rain was pouring into the room. Ron climbed the last few stairs and stepped out onto the roof.  
  
There was a dark shape sitting huddled against a wall, thankfully in the lee of it, out of the worst of the storm. It took Ron a moment to realise that it was Harry, his soaked robes hanging limply off his shivering body, water dripping from his sodden hair, the lenses of his glasses steamed up.  
  
"What the hell are you doing up here?" yelled Ron. He gathered his robes around him to prevent the wind using them as a sail and pitching him over the parapet, then walked over to Harry with difficulty ... the driving wind made it very hard to stand up properly. "You'll drown!"  
  
Harry looked up.  
  
"Leave me," he said.  
  
Ron collapsed to the floor next to him. "Uh, no," he said. "Not a chance, mate."  
  
Harry buried his face again. "Then don't talk to me ... I don't want to be talked to ..."  
  
"Aren't you cold?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "What difference do you think that makes?" he asked. "If I'm cold. Bugger off, Ron, you'll freeze to death ... I don't want you on my conscience."  
  
"You'll die before me," said Ron. "And then guess who'll be sorry? Your choice," he added, nonchalantly, as if the matter was one of supreme indifference to him. Harry, surprised by his throwaway tone, looked up.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"Oh, now he's interested," said Ron. "Please come downstairs. Whatever it is ... I thought we talked about these things. I didn't think we went and hid on top of towers. Let me talk to you about it ..."  
  
"No."  
  
"You're soaking wet. Look, I'll get you some hot chocolate, or something ... just come downstairs. Go to bed ..."  
  
"Can't go to bed anymore," whispered Harry, twisting his head the other way defiantly, so that he did not have to look Ron in the eye.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Dreams," said Harry, simply. Ron became aware that Harry's whole body was shivering violently. "Dreams will always come back. Always the same one ..."  
  
"Not that again," said Ron. "Look, we don't mind. Really ... we don't," his teeth were chattering.  
  
"No, sod it. I mustn't go to sleep," said Harry.  
  
"You'll get hypothermia ..."  
  
"Good!"  
  
"No ... not good at all," said Ron. "My Great-Grandfather died from it ... falling off a Thames steamer ..."  
  
"That's the point," said Harry. "That's the whole bloody point."  
  
"You want to die?"  
  
"Wouldn't mind, right now," said Harry. "No more dreams ... no more interfering busybodies. I wouldn't have to take any crap from anyone. And peaceful, too. Think about it, it would be so peaceful, being dead. I often think about it. Peace is good, peace is very good right now."  
  
"I'll hex you if you don't get up," said Ron, who had actually left his wand down in the dormitory.  
  
"No you won't," said Harry, correctly. "You'll let me do what I need to. You always were a good friend; you always did help me. Help me now. I'll recommend you to him, if I see him ... you'll get in, no worries."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"God," said Harry. "Ever wonder what he looks like?"  
  
"Big bloke, white beard, sandals," said Ron, fully aware that Harry's speech had little coherence, and that really, he was just humouring him. "Why, is that important?"  
  
"Maybe," said Harry. "God knows. Well, he probably has a mirror somewhere."  
  
"Why would God need a mirror? He's omnivorous."  
  
"I think you mean omniscient," said Harry. "I think he looks like Richard E. Grant."  
  
"What about that hot chocolate, then?" asked Ron. "Come on, I'm soaked to the skin here. You need to dry off and all ..."  
  
"Has it not occurred to you that I want to die?" said Harry shakily. "I've had enough of it. All your stupid expectations, all the newspapers, all of what everyone thinks ... they think I have to live up to them, to do what they want me to do, and as long as they think that, I can't be who I want to be. And I just want to be me. I don't want anything else, and I don't think I ever did. So maybe I can have that chance if I'm dead. Think about it ..."  
  
"What if there's nothing?" asked Ron. "What if you just die? What if that's it? You'll look pretty stupid then."  
  
"I'll have made my point," sobbed Harry, turning his head away again. The rainwater pouring down his face made it impossible to tell if he really was crying or not. "I just want to be normal."  
  
Ron edged up closer to Harry, and took the other boy's hands in his own, rubbing them together to eke some warmth back into his frozen fingertips. "You are normal. You're bloody normal. You're just special, too."  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Helping you," said Ron. "I know you don't want that."  
  
"I want my Mum and Dad," choked Harry.  
  
"You'll see them again ..."  
  
"You just said there was no afterlife," Harry wrested his hands away from Ron's, ran them through his slick, black hair, which was now plastered to his forehead and sticking in his eyes. Then he leant his head back against the parapet, and looked up at the angry sky above, opening his mouth and letting the rain fall down his throat.  
  
"I meant as an example," said Ron. "Look. Harry, believe me, you do not want to die, and you're not going to for a very long time. I'm going to make sure of that."  
  
Harry gargled with the water in his mouth, and then swallowed it. Then he looked at Ron, his eyes wide behind his glasses.  
  
"I don't want to be here," he said. "I don't want to be here anymore."  
  
"Shall I find someone? Do you want Hermione, or something?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Just get me down from here. I'm finished, and I'm tired. I want to be somewhere warm."  
  
Ron smiled at Harry, his whole body was shivering in the wet, freezing air, and he could see strands of matted red hair dangling in front of his eyes. Harry bit his bottom lip, and caught his friend's gaze.  
  
"Come here then," said Ron. Harry choked again, and then wrapped his arms tightly around Ron, burying his head in the other boy's rain soaked robes.  
  
Ron felt a hand on his shoulder, a light, gentle touch. He turned his head. Dumbledore and Hermione were standing behind them, Dumbledore sheltering them both with a large, black umbrella.  
  
"I didn't see you there, sir," said Ron.  
  
"Evidently," said Dumbledore. "Thank you, Ron. You did more than we could reasonably expect you to ..."  
  
"I just found him," mumbled Ron, knowing that his cheeks were flushing bright pink, and thankful that it was dark, so nobody had to see him.  
  
"You should go down to bed, both of you," said Dumbledore. "I'll take Harry down to the Hospital. He'll need to get looked at."  
  
If Harry was aware of the conversation going on, he was showing no sign of it.  
  
"I'd like to come with you," said Ron. "Just for a little while?"  
  
Dumbledore looked slightly pained. "Very well," he said, after a moment's pause. "Hermione, will you hold my brolly for me? Thank you ..."  
  
He stooped down next to Ron and Harry, and very slowly, reached out a gloved hand to prise Harry away from Ron. Harry did not react, but allowed his hand to be pulled gently away.  
  
"Can he walk?" asked Ron.  
  
Dumbledore tried his best to shrug. "We'd better give him a lift," he said. He put Harry's arm around his neck, and sliding his hands underneath the boy's body, lifted him up as easily as though he had been a bag of sugar. For such a frail and elderly man, he retained, clearly, a great deal of strength within. Ron looked up at him.  
  
"Light as a feather," smiled Dumbledore, holding Harry tightly. The rain pattered on the umbrella Hermione was still holding above them. "Come on, Ron. We ought to get you looked at too."  
  
Ron stumbled thankfully to his feet. "I'm fine," he sniffed. "I just need a towel or six."  
  
Harry's eyes were shut fast, his face still, with pearly, translucent droplets of water quivering on his skin. Dumbledore lead them over to the door, and ushered them through ...  
  
**************  
  
He was in the back of a car, driving along a rough, unmade road, past small stone cottages. He tried to hoist himself up into a more comfortable position, but the seatbelt was restraining his body tightly. Finally, he heard the car draw to a halt. The engine was turned off, and faces were peering at him through the gap in the front seats.  
  
"Do you want to get him out? I'll take the beer round the back," the man was saying. The woman nodded her agreement.  
  
Harry tried to speak, to ask where he was, but all that came out was a faint gurgling sound. He put his hand to his throat. He knew he should be absolutely terrified, but yet, somehow, he was not.  
  
"Come on, you," the woman opened the back door of the car, and lifted him clean out of it, hoisting him over her shoulder, as one might do to an infant, and patting his back gently.  
  
Harry burped. He was about to say, 'Pardon me,' but all that came out was, "Pwongs."  
  
What the hell is going on?  
  
"Yes, Prongs is coming," said the woman, calmly, carrying him through an open door. "Auntie Gwyneth too, and Padfoot."  
  
"Padfoot," sighed Harry. He found himself being set down in some kind of bouncing chair contraption, which was carried out through another set of doors, and onto what looked like a patio. There was somebody standing there, with his back to them, cooking meat over a barbecue. Harry could smell chops, sausages and ribs.  
  
His Mother set down the chair on the patio, where he had a good view of the proceedings.  
  
"Do you want some orange juice, Harry?"  
  
"Eck!"  
  
"I'll get you some," said his Mother, turning and disappearing back into the house. Harry had a chance to observe his new surroundings more closely. The man tending the barbecue did not appear to have noticed him, until another woman, this one clad in a loose, flowing white dress, appeared through the French windows, carrying a large plate, which she set down on a wooden picnic table Harry had not previously observed.  
  
Then she turned to kiss the man, who turned, revealing himself to be none other than Remus Lupin ...  
  
"Moony!" shrieked Harry. The embracing couple broke apart in surprise.  
  
"Not in front of Harry," said Remus. "You'll warp the poor little bugger."  
  
"I'd say he's already warped," said the woman. "You'd have to be, living with James and Lily. It's enough to drive the most sensible toddler insane."  
  
"He isn't a toddler," said Remus. "He's an in between. But James says he managed the sofa to the TV and back again the other day."  
  
Lily Potter appeared out the doors again, holding a large jug of Pimms, and a plastic cup with teddy bears on it. Harry bounced up and down in his chair. This wasn't all that bad, though he had a feeling they probably wouldn't be sparing any of the chops for him.  
  
As if in answer to his thoughts, Remus turned to Lily, and asked. "What's the kid having?"  
  
"He's a mucky pup," said Lily, setting the jug down on the table. "We'll mash him up a little steak with some of the potato salad. If he stays awake, of course ..."  
  
A butterfly settled on Harry's nose. He sneezed, and it flew off, alarmed. Potatoes and steak, eh? Brilliant. The delicious smell of grilling meat was wafting his way.  
  
"None of those horrible hamburger things?" he heard the other woman saying. She had her arms wrapped tightly around Remus' waist, which was inconveniencing his cooking somewhat.  
  
"No, Susanna. You know James won't have them in the house. Come on ... I need your help with that dessert."  
  
"Anybody want a beer?"  
  
"Me please," said Remus. James tossed him a can from the open box, and he cracked it open. Then his Father came over, sat down on the bench next to his chair, and ran his hand through Harry's hair. Harry giggled in pleasure.  
  
"Shall I give Harry some?" his Father asked.  
  
Beer? Yuck, no thanks, thought Harry.  
  
"Lily would probably kill you, Prongs."  
  
"Hmm, I guess you're right."  
  
There was the sound of a motorcycle engine being revved outside, and then a loud hooting. James stood up. "Oh Lord, that'll be Sirius and Gwyneth," he disappeared from Harry's line of sight. Harry stared up at the sky, which was a pale blue, tinged with red as the summer sun set behind the house.  
  
He heard Sirius' voice, loud, brash and confident, just as it always was. The two men, followed by Gwyneth, who was clutching a bottle of wine, stepped out onto the patio.  
  
"Is that your new lady friend, Remus?" he heard Sirius say. "She's a bit of all right, isn't she?"  
  
"She's wonderful," said Remus, without looking up from his barbecue.  
  
"I'll say," said Sirius. "Top totty, thanks old man," he cracked open a can of beer.  
  
"Not for me, ta," Gwyneth was saying.  
  
"Ducks!" shouted Harry, before he could stop himself.  
  
"Ooh, he's clever, isn't he?" Gwyneth cooed. "What new words has he learned lately?"  
  
"Marmite," said James, bitterly. "And he also learned that he hates the stuff. He threw four slices of toast across the room today."  
  
"Strong willed little sod?"  
  
"They get that way," said James. "He'll be a year old next Friday. I trust you'll all be attending the party. Frank and Angie are bringing Neville along, and there'll be Weasleys by the bucket load."  
  
"How many do they have now?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"Six," said James. "And another due before very much longer. Between you and me, I think they're praying for a little girl this time round. Still ... feel weird, having my boss at Harry's party."  
  
"What about those God awful Dursley creatures?"  
  
"Not invited," said James, a note of glee creeping into his voice. "We'll have quite enough on our hands with those Weasleys. Last time they came, Harry got flushed down the toilet."  
  
Harry grinned. He suspected he knew by whom.  
  
" ... gave them a good smack," James was saying. "Poor little buggers were bawling their eyes out all afternoon. Ron seemed to find it amusing. Mind you, he's not got over his biting phase yet ... it'll be all out war. God forbid we should have any others. Harry's quite enough on his own."  
  
"Oh, come now, I know he's a handful ..."  
  
"Handful ... he's a crawling disaster zone," said James, laughing. "We have to issue the Four Minute Warning whenever we take him out, so people go running to their bomb shelters. Rumour has it the government are printing Protect And Survive leaflets."  
  
Remus put on a fake voice. "What to do if the Russians drop Harry Potter on you. Do not attempt to leave your home. Make sure you have plentiful supplies of tinned food. Be prepared for fallout ..."  
  
"And that squint isn't getting any better," James went on. "He'll need glasses before very much longer."  
  
"Let's not talk kids," said Sirius, suddenly and very firmly. "So, Remus, tell us about your new shag ..."  
  
"Well," said Remus. "She's a Buddhist."  
  
"That doesn't mean she's a veggie?" began Sirius, sounding absolutely horrified at the prospect. "Remus Lupin, the world's one and only vegetarian werewolf."  
  
"She believes in the sanctity of all living creatures, if that's what you mean," said Remus, sounding a little hurt.  
  
"And does she enjoy riding your broomstick?"  
  
Gwyneth glared at Sirius. "Sorry ... anyway, did I say I'd been thinking of getting into Buddhism?"  
  
"What are you more interested in getting into, Sirius?" asked Gwyneth. "Buddhism or Buddhists?"  
  
"But she's so unbearably sexy," groaned Sirius in mock ecstasy.  
  
Gwyneth snorted, and came over to sit down next to Harry. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Want a swing?" she asked.  
  
'Not especially, thanks,' Harry was about to say. What he actually said was. "Yes!"  
  
Before he could stop her, he found himself being lifted clean out of the rocking chair. She smelled of some perfume he could not identify, but it was lovely all the same. She held onto both his hands, and started to swing him around. He could hear himself screaming in glee, and see the blurry shapes whizzing round, hear the alcohol-fuelled laughter of the others, and then he felt something soft covering his body, and he opened his eyes.  
  
"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Welcome back."  
  
Harry struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, but Dumbledore pushed him back down into the covers. He allowed his head to rest on the fluffy pillows, and stared up at the ceiling. His whole body felt as though it had been frozen to the very core. He had been stripped of his clothes, changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms several sizes too big, and covered with two very thick eiderdowns. He could feel the comforting, slippery rubber bulk of a hot water bottle nestling by his feet.  
  
"Am I okay?" he asked, his voice sounded croaky, and not altogether there.  
  
Dumbledore did not reply.  
  
"Where's Ron?" asked Harry, looking around the deserted ward.  
  
"I sent Mr. Weasley off to bed," said Dumbledore. "He sat with you for at least two hours ..."  
  
Harry glanced over to the large clock on the wall. It had just gone one o'clock in the morning.  
  
"I had a dream," he began.  
  
"Was it like the others?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
Harry was puzzled. "How do you know about those?" he asked.  
  
"I know," said Dumbledore. "I have ways of finding out things it might be beneficial to me to know. Tell me what happened in that dream."  
  
"I was a baby," said Harry, dreamily, looking up at Dumbledore, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I think I was, anyhow. And we were at some kind of party, with my Mum and Dad, and Sirius, and Remus, and Gwyneth, and they were talking about my birthday. It ... it was," it was the best dream he'd had for a very long time. "It was wonderful," his voice trailed off.  
  
"Better than the others?"  
  
Harry nodded. "The others were nightmares," he said. "What am I doing in here, anyway?"  
  
"We found you hiding on top of the Astronomy Tower," said Dumbledore. "You ran away ... you were in quite a state, too. Ron was trying to talk you down."  
  
"Am I okay?"  
  
"Most definitely not," said Dumbledore. "You have mild hypothermia. That's all. You'll be okay by the morning. That's why we charmed those blankets to give off extra heat. And Madam Pomfrey is just whipping up some Pepper-Up Potion. She won't be a minute. Then, I suggest you rest ..."  
  
"What about the dreams?" asked Harry. "Will they stop too?"  
  
"The dreams are bothering you?" asked Dumbledore, his eyes filled with concern.  
  
Harry nodded. "Very much so," he said.  
  
"Well, I can't do anything about that," said Dumbledore. "Dreams are an essential part of your body's routine. They are a way of mulling over the day's events, sifting off what was interesting, or difficult, and coming up with a solution. Of course, the solution is never immediately obvious. Many people, Harry, both Wizard and Muggle have tried to interpret their dreams. Very few ever came close."  
  
"But they hurt me," said Harry, he sat up again, and pointed to his chest. "Here," he added.  
  
Dumbledore smiled again. "You cannot be hurt in your dreams," he said. "Nobody can be physically hurt by his or her subconscious mind. Many have tried to do that as well. Imagine the power you could wield if it was possible to attack people in their dreams. The science of sleep was one of great interest to Lord Voldemort, and he never conquered its secrets ... thank God," he said.  
  
Harry shivered again, and snuggled back down underneath the bedclothes, drawing them tight around his neck to seal himself in. "Can't you do something?" he asked. "Just for tonight?"  
  
Dumbledore looked around. Then he turned back to Harry. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "There is a potion, for deep, dreamless sleep. You've had it before, I believe ..."  
  
"Yes," said Harry. "Some of that?"  
  
"I'll see what I can do," he said. "Meantime, Harry, rest, and get warm, and don't try and kill yourself again."  
  
Harry leant his head back on the pillow, and drew his legs up to his chest ... the brushed cotton material felt smooth and comforting against the bare skin. He rolled over onto his side, and closed his eyes. Dumbledore stood up slowly, keeping one eye on him, and then walked off, closing the curtains around the bed with a swish and a flourish.  
  
But I didn't try to kill myself, Harry thought.  
  
**************  
  
"Name of Black ... table for, uh, two," said Sirius, leaning casually on the wooden lectern holding the reservations book, as though requesting a table in the most exclusive restaurant in wizarding London was something he did everyday.  
  
The maitre d', who was a snooty man with a moustache straight out of Magnum P.I., and was possibly the most blatant homosexual either of them had ever encountered, peered down his nose at them. By the look on his face, he appeared to be trying to locate an offensive odour, lurking somewhere within the restaurant.  
  
"Black," he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue in a brief and violent expectoration. "Let me see," he managed to draw out the single syllable of see, making the word almost five seconds long. Then he began to trace his quill, agonisingly slowly down the lines of names.  
  
"I don't see a Black here, monsieur," said the maitre d', tapping his quill on the open page of the book.  
  
"But I can see it, there, upside down, between Austin and Bull," said Sirius, pointing to what was clearly his name, written in a florid, copperplate hand.  
  
"That says Block, it's a German name," said the maitre d'. "There are no Blacks on my list. I'm sorry sir. If you would care to wait, we might have a cancellation."  
  
"Yeah, when the Blocks don't show up, I would imagine," said Sirius. He made sure Gwyneth was looking the other way, and then reached into one of the inside pockets of his dress robes, and withdrew a brown leather bag. "Look," he said. "There's fifteen Galleons in here says I'm Mr. Black, or Block, or whatever the hell his name is. And this is the most important evening of my life; I have not eaten out since 1981, I have just been absolved of a multiple murder, and most importantly of all, I am about to propose to the woman I have loved for fifteen years, and nothing, repeat, nothing that you can do is going to stop me from wining and dining her in the most exquisite, opulent and downright decadent style you can possibly bear to bring yourself to imagine. Got that?"  
  
The maitre d' looked from Sirius to the small leather bag, and back to Sirius again. Then he sighed. "Very well, monsieur," he said. "Table number seven, please, Michelle?"  
  
They were shown into the restaurant, and seated in a very secluded spot by the window, where they could look out over Diagon Alley. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still a lot of people hurrying about, and the bars and clubs were all open, of course.  
  
"Would Monsieur care for drinks, at all?" asked their waitress.  
  
"Ogden's Old Firewhisky, on the rocks," said Sirius, barely taking his eyes off the menu, which he was dismayed to see was in French.  
  
"Madame?"  
  
"I'll have a small glass of the house white," said Gwyneth. "May we see the wine list as well?"  
  
"Certainly."  
  
"Any idea what the hell this is?" asked Sirius, pointing to an indecipherable item.  
  
Gwyneth shrugged. "I was never much good with languages, though I can speak Welsh. I know how to say 'Welcome to Wales' in Welsh, which I can honestly say has never come in useful at all."  
  
"Say it, then," said Sirius.  
  
"Croeso y Cymru," said Gwyneth. "You spell it Cymru, with a 'u' on the end, but you pronounce it 'coom-ri,' with the inflection on the last syllable ..."  
  
"Cymru," repeated Sirius. "Excellent. Now, say something else ..."  
  
"Er mwyn atal lledaeniad clwyr traed a'r genau; cadwch oddi wrth dir fferm a thir pori."  
  
"There is something altogether very sexy about the way your lips move when you speak in tongues," said Sirius, smiling at her. "Even though I can't understand what you're saying."  
  
"Are you coming on to me, Sirius Black?"  
  
Sirius shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. Now, tell me what the hell coulis is ..."  
  
Gwyneth shrugged. "I've no bloody idea," she said. "I live in Llandudno ... my idea of a gourmet night out is fish and chips on the sea front, my people think exotic food begins and ends with spaghetti out of tins. You have to remember that where England is vibrant and multicultural and forward looking, Wales is dull, wet, and closed on Sundays."  
  
"I remember," said Sirius. "Back in the Eighties, when you knew that wherever you went for a meal in this country, you could rest secure in the knowledge that whatever you ordered would turn out to be overpriced, flavourless crap. And now I get out of gaol after thirteen years, I find the whole bloody place has gone gourmet on me. Noisettes of this and roulades of that in a sauce of God only knows what. I mean, what happened to Beef Wellington with chips and peas you could use as lead shot? There's even a vegetarian option. I remember when vegetarians had to scrape off the meat and try to look excited about potatoes ..."  
  
"Do you remember when Remus nearly went vegetarian?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"Yes," said Sirius. "What did happen to Susanna, in the end?"  
  
"She turned out to be a militant communist lesbian and defected to Yugoslavia with a gas fitter from Huddersfield," said Gwyneth. "Renounced Buddhism. I believe she sells real estate to the Bosnians now."  
  
The waitress brought them their drinks, and a wine list, off which Sirius ordered a bottle of something South African with a silly name, and a bottle of Dom Perignon. Then they returned to consulting their pretentious menus.  
  
"I absolutely dread inadvertently ordering liver," snickered Gwyneth, after a couple of minutes had passed.  
  
"I know a funny story about liver," said Sirius. No! Not that! This is the woman you are planning to spend the rest of your life with, damn it!  
  
"I should like to hear it," said Gwyneth.  
  
The waitress returned to their table. "May I take your orders?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Oh, Christ, yes, do. Um, I'll have the asparagus to start, followed by the chasseur of thingy with wild mushrooms ... champignons are mushrooms, right? Good, with champignons sauvages ... vicious mushrooms eh. Would they be vicious, cold blooded mushrooms?" he smiled.  
  
"And for Madame?"  
  
"Um, oh. Right, okay. I'll have the asparagus too, to start, followed by that ... that looks familiar. What is it?"  
  
"It's a Provencal stew," said the waitress. "Beef, bacon, beans. Good with red wine, you ordered red wine, yes?"  
  
Sirius nodded. Gwyneth smiled. "That sounds unexpectedly hearty for a French restaurant. I'll try that."  
  
"Bread?"  
  
"On the side, yes, please. And can you get us a bottle of mineral water? Thanks."  
  
The waitress smiled at them, and went away again. Gwyneth said. "So, tell me your liver story."  
  
"I'm not sure I ought to," said Sirius. "There are some things that were not intended to be heard by the ears of women ..."  
  
"You're talking to the woman who once climbed Snowdon with her knickers on full view to a party of ten year old Cub Scouts," said Gwyneth. "Believe me, I can cope. I used to sex dragons for a living ... you ought to see that, it gets complicated."  
  
"Yes, how do you ... um, tell the difference?"  
  
"With difficulty," said Gwyneth. "Nothing's actually visible with dragons. Anyway. I'm not here to talk about dragons."  
  
The food, when it came, was excellent, and to Sirius' great and eternal relief, went very nicely with the wine. In conversational terms, they covered ground ranging from where and under what circumstances Gwyneth drifted from dragon sexing to teaching, Quidditch, emulsion paint, why they both loved the Seventies and children (Gwyneth had always wanted three, a boy, a girl, and one for luck). By the time dessert rolled around, both of them were decidedly tipsy. Sirius opened the bottle of Champagne, and they toasted each other, sipping from one another's glasses, Gwyneth giggling like crazy throughout.  
  
"It's been a wonderful evening," said Gwyneth. "Thank you, Sirius."  
  
"My pleasure," he said. "You need spoiling. You're very easy to spoil, and I like doing it ..."  
  
"You corrupter of lost souls, you," sniggered Gwyneth. "Are you trying to get me drunk for a reason?" she added.  
  
"Well," said Sirius. "I haven't had sex for fourteen years. And so, possibly, at some point, I might have wanted to ... but then I thought there were rather more important things ..."  
  
"I could not understand you saying that if you've just been celibate half your life," said Gwyneth. "There is something that you are hiding from me, isn't there?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "There is something I am hiding from you ... a very large something indeed."  
  
"This better not have anything to do with sex," said Gwyneth. "I have my wand in my handbag, and my Father will kill you if he finds us snogging on the doorstep."  
  
"He'll burst out of the bushes, armed to the teeth, face blacked out," said Sirius.  
  
"State your name, rank, serial number and intentions!" giggled Gwyneth. "What was the very large important thing you were going to tell me about?"  
  
"It's a very nice thing," said Sirius, hiccupping. "Perhaps it ought to wait for another day, when we're less drunk."  
  
"I'm not drunk at all," said Gwyneth. "I am merry, that's what it is. Decidedly merry, that's as maybe, but certainly not drunk by any means ..."  
  
"Bully for you. I am," said Sirius. "I am also an incurable romantic, which is why I brought you here this evening ..."  
  
"Get on with it!" said Gwyneth, dissolving into fresh fits of giggles.  
  
Sirius delved once more into one of his many pockets, and withdrew the tiny, velvet covered box he had shown to Harry the previous day. He set it down in the middle of the table.  
  
"Now," he said. "Only one person actually already knows about this. Two, if you count me, and I've sworn the other one to keep his trap shut on pain of me removing his testicles with a large pair of pliers ... and at his age, that's a big threat."  
  
"Are you threatening pupils with castration again?" asked Gwyneth. "Is that what's in the box?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "No, listen to me a minute. This is, not something I've ever had to do before, to anybody, in my entire life. And I hesitated a lot ... for a long time, before I decided to take the plunge."  
  
"Are you coming out, or something?"  
  
"Please ... this is important," snapped Sirius. The whole thing was not going quite the way he had planned, and he was beginning to regret having ordered quite so much wine as he had done. Nevertheless, he soldiered on.   
  
"Gwyneth. I know we've lost a good few years in the meantime, and I know we probably neither of us feel like we know each other as well as we once did, but the truth is, I was planning this when events overtook us, and I had been planning it for quite some time. And then, well, bad things our way came, and we lost touch. And, since we've met up again, and I think we've been getting on great, and I still think we have that spark, like we did back then. Well, all this is a rather roundabout and hesitant way of asking, in a sort of pseudo Hugh Grant style that you'd find very endearing if you were a Yank, if, if, if you could spare the time, and were that way inclined, whether you'd mind ... oh ..."  
  
His mind had gone completely blank.  
  
"Oh, bugger it. Go to Plan B. Gwyneth. Will you marry me?"  
  
He flipped the lid on the little box, and nudged it gently across the tablecloth towards her. Her face was reflected in the curvature of his spoon, making it all distorted and funny looking, but he wasn't paying attention to the reflection.  
  
Gwyneth, to put it mildly, seemed to be absolutely lost for words. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, like a fish out of water.  
  
"I'm ... Sirius," she took the ring out of the box, and held it up before her eyes, where it sparkled. "It's beautiful. Last time anybody asked me to marry him, I was at Primary School, and then it was a trick. That rotten Jack Evans put a frog down my cardigan. Are you ... you're for real, aren't you?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "I'm as real as I'll ever be," he said.  
  
"Well ... stone the crows. Um, I'll have to think," she turned the ring over and over in her hand. "Sirius ... I don't know. God, I just don't know ..."  
  
Sirius' face fell a minute amount.  
  
"God, oh my. Um. Sirius. I would be honoured, absolutely honoured to ... so, I suppose, yes."  
  
"You're not having me on?"  
  
Gwyneth slid the ring onto her finger. "Perfect fit," she grinned. "And of course I'm not having you on. When's the big day?"  
  
"Sooner, rather than later," said Sirius. "I'm too excited to wait ..."  
  
Gwyneth put her hand over her heart. "Thank God ... I was afraid you wanted one of those awful three year engagements. End of the year? Christmastime?"  
  
"I'll check my diary," said Sirius. "Oh ... I can't begin to tell you how happy this makes me," he poured more Champagne into their glasses.  
  
"Tell me," said Gwyneth. "Do you believe in sex before marriage?"  
  
"With all my heart."  
  
"Good, me too," said Gwyneth, draining her glass in one gulp. "What say we stay in London? Make a night of it? No school tomorrow."  
  
"Room at the Royale," said Sirius. "I took the liberty of booking."  
  
"The Royale? Oh my ... you did plan this out, didn't you?" asked Gwyneth. "And there was me thinking we were just going for a meal and a moan about the pupils! Isn't the Royale a hundred Galleons a night?"  
  
"Someone got a nice big cheque paid into their bank account yesterday," said Sirius. "Wrongful arrest, imprisonment without trial, wrongful imprisonment. It adds up to a tidy amount," he finished. "I thought I should splash out ..."  
  
Gwyneth leant across the table, moving the candelabra out of the way, and before Sirius could carry on, had put her hand on the nape of his neck, and kissed him, relishing the feel of his stubble against her cheek. Sirius responded in kind, putting his arms round her, and melting into her delicate touch, he didn't think there could be any man alive happier than he.  
  
**************  
  
"Do you feel like talking about that today, Harry?" asked Sinead, crossing her legs, and pretending to take notes on her little pad. Harry relaxed a little in his armchair, though his hands were still gripping the actual arms very tightly, making his knuckles go white. He looked like he was on a particularly scary roller coaster.  
  
"Not especially," said Harry.  
  
"Okay, so no Dursleys today. That's all right. What about your Mum and Dad?"  
  
"Dead," said Harry.  
  
"Yeah, obviously," said Sinead, quite forgetting that she was meant to be being a psychiatrist ... practical and understanding ... a woman who gets things done. Harry did not seem to have noticed her gaffe.  
  
"Do you remember anything of them?" she asked. Harry shook his head in response.  
  
"Not really," he said. "There was a time, during the Third Year, when the Dementors were around. Then I'd hear them, whenever they got near. And dreams, of course. I see them a lot in dreams."  
  
"Your reaction to Dementors is really very common," said Sinead. "It would surprise me greatly if you didn't experience some kind of temporal flashback whenever they came near ..."  
  
"What's a temporal flashback?" asked Harry, leaning forwards in his chair.  
  
"Posh term for a sudden reliving of events long past," said Sinead. "It happens to lots of people who've been through stressful or harrowing situations. Veterans of Muggle wars are particularly at risk. But I'd like to ask you a few questions about your dreams. What are they like?"  
  
"I can't remember most of them," said Harry.  
  
"Very well, but tell me about the ones you do remember, what's happening in them?" asked Sinead, drumming her pen on her clipboard.  
  
"Usually they're brief," said Harry. "They don't last very long, and I'm not usually aware of what's going on ..."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"I think I'm dreaming about the actual," he faltered, and wiped his arm across his eyes, and Sinead was very nearly tempted to stop him there, as she sensed they were treading on very fragile eggshells indeed. However, she let him continue, "about the ... actual attack."  
  
Harry looked up, but Sinead looked hastily away, avoiding eye contact. "I see," she said. "Is that all?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "Oh no, there's been another kind of dream, very recently, where I think I'm dreaming about what it was like before the attack. I'm usually me, actually in my body, and I can think and stuff, and see what's going on around me ... but I'm still a baby, so I can't do anything about it ..." he paused.  
  
"I see. Are these frequent?"  
  
"Most nights," conceded Harry.  
  
"Okay. Well, are these dreams troubling you?" she asked him.  
  
"Not ... as such," said Harry. "I mean, the ones where I can hear my parents screaming ... I've had them so often I don't notice them anymore. The others ... actually, I quite like the others."  
  
"But these others have only started recently?" prompted Sinead.  
  
Harry nodded. "Last week or so," he said.  
  
"That's interesting. Okay, we're going to come back to that. I'd like you to do a little exercise for me now, Harry ..."  
  
"Like that breathing one?" asked Harry. One of the things she had been asking him to do since their last session was to take time out every so often, to lie on the floor, and breathe properly and deeply, though to what purpose, she did not say. Harry suspected it was to calm him down ... and to his surprise, for by nature he was sceptical, he had actually felt a lot better afterwards ...  
  
"A little like the breathing exercise," said Sinead. "Now, Harry, this might be very painful for you, and you might want to stop, and if you do, then I'll understand that, and we'll stop. And I won't ask you to do it again. If it gets like that, if you start feeling uncomfortable or too upset, then tell me, instantly, and I'll stop it at that. Okay?"  
  
"Um, okay," said Harry.  
  
"Right, this is an exercise in what I like to call 'Trousers of Time Fantasy,'" said Sinead.  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Sorry?"  
  
"Trousers of Time," said Sinead. "Okay, here's an example. A messenger leaves a castle on horseback, carrying vital orders for his King's army to retreat from battle. On the journey, he gets waylaid by some men with sticks and a cash-flow problem, and so he doesn't get there on time, and the two armies fight, and hundreds of innocent men are killed. But what if the bandits hadn't been there, or had missed him by two minutes, or had decided to stay home with a cup of tea? The messenger would have got through, and the battle would have been averted. You see, an alternate scenario, or another leg of the Trousers of Time is created at that point, with one set of events diverging off down one leg, and the other set down the other leg."  
  
Harry still looked suitably baffled ...  
  
"And this doesn't apply to battles ... it applies to each tiniest little quirk of fate. For every decision you ever make, you create a new pair of Trousers. If you choose the chicken instead of the lamb, an alternate reality exists where you chose the lamb, and in the lamb was lurking a nasty virus which made you very ill, but in the chicken reality, you just ate the chicken, and nothing happened. Got that?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"So what I'm going to ask you to do, is imagine the pair of Trousers that was created when Volde ... sorry, You-Know-Who attacked your Mum and Dad, where they didn't die. I want you to close your eyes, and you can lie on the floor, if you'd like ..."  
  
"I'll stay sitting," said Harry.  
  
"Okay, up to you ... and I want you to tell me what's happening to you. What happened in this alternate universe scenario. Okay?"  
  
Harry nodded. He closed his eyes ...  
  
Almost immediately, he saw images floating before his closed eyelids. There were people walking across a field ... several of them, two boys running ahead of the adults ...  
  
"I think I can see me," he said.  
  
"That's good ... describe everything ... describe what's happening," he heard Sinead's voice. "I want to know how it turned out for you. I want to know how happy you are ..."  
  
"We're walking across some field, somewhere. The grass is about knee high, it might be a meadow actually, I can see flowers, and there are hills too, nearby. I don't think we're too far from home. And there's seven people ... four adults and three kids. I think I'm one of the kids. The grownups look like my parents, and there's a little girl holding my Mum's hand. She looks about six or seven years old. And I'm running ahead. There's another boy with me, but I don't recognise him. Oh wait, I do. He has red hair. I think that's Ron ..."  
  
"Very good ... keep going."  
  
"I think I'm about nine or ten. There's a massive bruise on my leg, and I can hear stuff happening. There are birds ... and people talking to one another, and the sound of ..."  
  
... a tractor, driving down the lane outside. It was a blisteringly hot day, and the air was thick with the scent of the flowers, and the buzzing of insects and the chirruping of crickets and grasshoppers ... the kind of summer's day that never happens in reality. They had been walking for about twenty minutes, just in a circuit through the fields near the cottage ... the farmers never seemed to mind. Then they climbed down to where the infant stream gurgled through the cool, shady woods, the green canopy of leaves casting dappled light over the forest floor, and while Harry and Ron peeled off their T-shirts and splashed in the stream, the adults sat on the mossy banks and Lily opened the flask of wine she had brought from the cottage, a souvenir of their last trip to France ...  
  
"Did Harry get the letter yet?" asked Sirius, relaxing and watching the children. Ron jumped at Harry, and knocked him over, the other boy falling, shrieking into the water. Neither James nor Lily seemed to notice.  
  
"Yeah," said James, sipping the wine from one of the plastic cups, and holding Rosie tight around the waist. The girl did not, apparently, want to join in the decidedly rough game Harry and Ron were playing. "September 1st, Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Same as always. You know they don't allow kids to have their own brooms in the First Year anymore?"  
  
"Rotten spoilsports," said Sirius. "Did you get around to replacing the Nimbus yet?"  
  
James shook his head. "Harry was bloody angry with me about that," he smiled at the memory. "He still thinks he's going to seek for England one day ..."  
  
"Perhaps he will," said Sirius.  
  
"Nah ... he's a hyperactive little bugger. He doesn't have the patience to stay on a broomstick for more than ten minutes ..."  
  
The adults watched as the boys scrambled up the opposite side of the bank, Harry clutching at tree roots to haul himself up, Ron following, a little more gingerly. He was an altogether more sensible child, whereas Harry had spent most of his ten (nearly eleven) years hurling himself off furniture and other high places, of which there was a plentiful supply around the Sussex village in which they lived. They had moved south a few years earlier, mainly to be nearer James' work in London ...  
  
"He has Gryffindor stamped all over him," James remarked, as the boys disappeared into the dense thickets on the other side.  
  
"Don't go far!" called Lily. "Do you think we should make them put shoes on?"  
  
"Wouldn't bother. Harry's feet are as tough as old boots anyhow," said James. "Apparently dear old Godric himself used to spend most of his time running at things and screaming himself silly. It must be a character trait ... Gryffindor equals insane screaming bastard," he went on. "I wouldn't be surprised if Harry ended up there. And I'd bloody kill someone if he got into Slytherin."  
  
"What about that friend of his?" asked Sirius. "Ron?"  
  
James shrugged. "Too close to call," he said. "All the others were Gryffindors ... three of them still are ... Second Years, and a Fourth Year, I think. Usually depends on what kind of mood the Sorting Hat is in."  
  
Harry reappeared from behind a bush. Physically, a very slight boy, his body was thin, bony and wiry, and tanned very brown through too much sun. His face was grubby and flushed, the lenses of his glasses dirty and smeared with fingerprints. His hair, as usual, was a mess. There was a piece of sticky plaster on his left knee, and on his right ankle was a livid, yellow bruise. Adorning his forehead, partially obscured by a curl of hair was his scar, a relic of the broomstick accident that had nearly killed him as a baby. He waved at them, and then disappeared back into the woods, yelling.  
  
"Don't kill anything!" James hollered after him ...  
  
" ... they're all sitting there, and I'm off God knows where, and ... "  
  
Now Harry found himself walking along a roughly laid stone path ... he could still feel the soft leather armchair up in the office beneath him, but it seemed to be not entirely there. The sky was a shade of dark blue, almost grey. Away to his left was a field, with wheat waving in a light breeze.  
  
"What is this place?"  
  
There was no answer forthcoming. He glanced over to the right. There was a whitewashed wall, which also appeared grey in the dim light. Set into the wall at intervals were tiny alcoves, each containing a statuette.  
  
He was walking towards a gateway set into the wall. It was made of wrought iron, and on the other side he could see a garden. It was a classical garden, it looked almost Roman, and there were fake temples and columns and statues hidden amongst the winding paths and the topiary and the smooth, well kept lawns.  
  
And the garden was colourful, a Babylonian riot of greens and reds and purples and yellows and God knew what else. Harry put his hands up to the gate, and peered through. Now he could see there were people in the garden ... sitting on benches under the shade of the cypress trees, or wondering in pairs, or threes or fours along the paths, talking. They seemed very happy to be there, and Harry wished for a moment he could join them. He tried pushing at the gate, but nothing happened. It was stuck fast.  
  
"You don't want to go in there yet," said a voice from behind him.  
  
Harry spun round. There were two people standing behind him, a man and a woman, clothed in flowing white robes, that rustled in the breeze ...  
  
"You don't really want to. Imagine all the things still to come for you. Imagine the good times."  
  
Harry recognised who was talking to him ... his parents.  
  
"It may seem bad now, Harry. But you can't come in here with us. This is a place just for us. You'll come one day, but not now."  
  
"So don't try," said his Father. "And try to give Sirius and Gwyneth a chance. They both need to learn too. You can all learn together. But now, this is our time, this is our place."  
  
"But I want to come with you," quavered Harry, his knees shaking.  
  
The wheat was swaying from side to side with increased vigour, the wind was picking up.  
  
"You mustn't," said his Father. "It's time for you to go, almost. But there is one more thing you need to see ..."  
  
A white light seemed to be coming out of nowhere ... sweeping across the landscape, blinding and burning hot, and it enveloped Harry, and he was about to scream in pain, when he found himself in a room ... his dormitory, up in Gryffindor Tower. It was early in the morning; nobody was awake yet, and the hangings were drawn around all the beds.  
  
Harry looked around for any sign of his parents, but they seemed to have vanished. He sat down on the rug in the middle of the floor, and looked around the room.  
  
Then he saw what was unmistakably blood, so dark it appeared almost black in the dawn light, pooling on the floor of the dormitory and collecting in the cracks between the stones. Harry stood up, his heart suddenly gripped with terror.  
  
The blood was coming from his bed ... the hangings were draped in a pool of dark, viscous liquid; the sheets were drenched.  
  
Harry was across the room in two strides, wrenching back the hangings around his bed, not caring if he woke the other, sleeping boys.  
  
He screamed, then clapped his hand over his mouth. For what he saw was a more terrible thing than anything he had ever seen before in his life. His body was lying on top of the covers, his hands crossed over his bared chest, and there were two thin cuts across his wrists. The knife that had done it ... his own pocket knife, the one Sirius gave him, was clutched in the lifeless fingers of his left hand.  
  
The Harry lying on the bed looked no older than he did now, in fact ...  
  
Harry dropped to his knees beside the bed, feeling the blood soaking his robes, and put his fingers to his throat. There was no pulse, no heartbeat ... no gentle rising and falling of the chest to indicate that any life at all remained there.  
  
"Harry?" he heard someone say. He turned around at the sound of Ron's voice. Ron was sitting up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair tousled.  
  
"Ron ... I don't know what happened ... I just found him. I'm not even meant to be ..." he blurted out. It occurred to him that Ron was looking straight through him, not even acknowledging his presence in the dormitory.  
  
"Oh, hell!" he heard Ron breathe.  
  
In an instant the other boy was out of bed, and at Harry's bedside. Harry watched as Ron clasped Harry's hands, ripped them away from his body.  
  
"No, no, no, no, no, no!"  
  
Ron put his fingers, as Harry had done, against Harry's neck, feeling for a pulse, feeling for anything. But there was nothing.  
  
"No, not now! Not now!"  
  
Harry peered closer, tears were rolling down Ron's face ... he looked like he was choking.  
  
"Not now, you selfish bastard! We need you now! We need ... you!" he coughed loudly, his breathing seemed to be coming in short, ragged gasps, his shoulders were shaking, and he clasped Harry's hands even tighter, resting his head on the corpse's bloodstained form, his sobs echoing round the room ...  
  
"Not now."  
  
Harry wanted to step forwards, to reach out and touch his friend and comfort him, but there was something, something very strong holding him back. Ron's cries still echoed in his head as the room turned to black, and he opened his eyes. His whole body was shaking violently, and he was drenched in sweat.  
  
He was also in his bed, up in the dormitory. He looked around, suddenly startled ...  
  
Sirius was sitting on a hard, upright wooden chair by the side of his bed. "You okay now?" he asked, leaning over to peer at Harry.  
  
"I think ... fine, I guess," muttered Harry, putting his hand to his forehead. "Very hot," he said.  
  
"You passed out," Sirius said, arranging the bedclothes, and tucking him in at the sides. "You were having your therapy session with Sinead, and she said you were doing some kind of visualisation exercise, and you just passed out on the floor ..."  
  
"It was horrible," said Harry. "I saw me dead."  
  
Sirius looked concerned. "That's serious," he said. "What had happened?"  
  
Harry breathed deeply ... he was still shivering. He shut his eyes briefly, and then said. "I think I'd killed myself. I think I'd slit my own wrists."  
  
He turned to look up at Sirius. "That's bad, isn't it?" he said.  
  
Sirius was nodding. "Harry, I want you to promise me you won't try and do anything stupid," he said, after a moment's thought.  
  
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Harry. "Why would I want to do myself in?"  
  
Sirius gave him a pained look. "I spoke to Dumbledore, yesterday morning," he said. "He told me about what happened up on the Astronomy Tower. I don't know if you meant what you were saying, or not, but you must never even consider suicide, Harry. It's very dangerous."  
  
"Relax!" said Harry. "I'm not that warped. I could use a drink though," he hinted.  
  
"Ron's just gone to get some tea," said Sirius. "He should be back up any second. That's a dutiful friend you have there, Harry," he added, leaning forwards to brush Harry's hair out of his eyes. Harry did not reply.  
  
"Anyway," Sirius went on. "I'd rather know you were safe. Is there anything in this room that you could use to hurt yourself with?"  
  
"I'm not going to hurt myself!" snapped Harry, trying to sit up in bed. "You're over-reacting."  
  
"Harry, is there anything in here you could use?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Sure, shoelaces ..."  
  
"I meant weapons."  
  
Harry made a pained face. "Only my knife," he said.  
  
"You have a knife? Where did you get that from?"  
  
"Uh, actually, you gave it to me," said Harry. "It was a Christmas present."  
  
"Where do you keep it?" asked Sirius, standing up.  
  
"Bottom drawer," said Harry. He threw the covers off ... some of the things in the bottom drawer were very private indeed ... things he did not necessarily want Sirius to see or know about. "I'll get it for you."  
  
"I think I can find a drawer ..." began Sirius.  
  
"I said, I'll get it for you," said Harry, swinging his legs out of bed, and trying to stand up. He pulled open the drawer a fraction, so that Sirius wouldn't be able to see what was inside it, and took out the knife. It looked, to all intents and purposes, like a Muggle Swiss Army knife. Reluctantly, he handed it over.  
  
"It's nice, this," said Sirius, pocketing it. "I can't imagine why I spent that much money on you ... relax, just a joke!" he added, hastily, as Harry turned to glare at him. "You should get back in bed. You need rest."  
  
"I'm fine," said Harry, kicking the drawer shut. "Anyway, I promised to help Ron with his Charms essay this afternoon ..."  
  
"As a teacher, I feel I must register my disapproval at that last statement," said Sirius, blankly. "Anyway, you still need rest, and I say so."  
  
"Why are you so anxious about me all of a sudden?" asked Harry. "I'm not a little kid anymore. I can take care of myself ..."  
  
He clambered back into bed, and drew the covers up around his body. Then he relaxed back on his pillow.  
  
"But you see, you are and you can't," said Sirius. "I'm sorry, Harry. But technically and legally I'm your official guardian. That means I have full parental rights and responsibility for you ... for the next three years ..."  
  
"What does that have to do with it?" asked Harry.  
  
"Everything," said Sirius. "Your Father asked me, specifically."  
  
"Deathbed plea, was it?" sniped Harry bitterly, a feeling of resentment rising inside him at this man, who purported to be his Godfather, but who seemed intent on razing his life to the ground.  
  
"You know as well as I do that's not what it was," said Sirius. "We made it all legal and binding and such. I'll show you the papers one day."  
  
"I don't want to see the papers," said Harry. "That isn't it. That isn't it at all."  
  
"I think I know what it is," said Sirius. "Look ... I'm sorry, I'm upsetting you. I just care about you, that's all. We all do. There's going to be some very dark times coming our way soon, and we want to help you through them."  
  
"You and Gwyneth?" asked Harry.  
  
Sirius sat back down on his chair. "Well," he said. "About Gwyneth. I spoke to her, about the little chat you and she had? And I explained why I thought she hadn't said the right things, and she agrees with me, and she told me she regrets saying what she said. She wants to help too, Harry."  
  
"I don't want any help."  
  
"Ah, well, that isn't the issue here. I'm afraid you need help. After what's happened recently, and after what's happened in the past, it would be stupid of us not to give you help ..."  
  
"Dumbledore said I was up to it," said Harry.  
  
"You nearly weren't," said Sirius. "But I'm not here to dig up that night again. You were asking about Gwyneth. Well, I won't deny she finds it difficult to accept you. But we can get around that. You used to love her so much ... your Mum and Dad used to tell me how you bawled your eyes out whenever she left the house. She thought that was ever so cute ..."  
  
"So why does she hate me so much now?" asked Harry. "Is it that ... is it because of the attack?"  
  
Sirius wrung his hands. "I think she may have a point," he said. "But look, we've discussed it. We're going to give it a go, and we'd be very flattered if you'd give us a go too. I'm sure we can make it okay."  
  
Harry snorted. "So you're tying the knot then?"  
  
Sirius face cracked into a broad grin. "As of last night," he said. "It's official ..."  
  
"I won't say I'm happy," said Harry. "But I guess ... congratulations."  
  
Sirius smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I know she can find it in her heart to like you again," he said.  
  
"Would it make any difference if I told you why I don't want you to marry her?" asked Harry, looking up at Sirius.  
  
"Probably not, but if you want to get it off your chest."  
  
"Promise not to tell another soul?"  
  
"On my own life," said Sirius gravely.  
  
"I wanted it to be just us," said Harry. "You're the closest thing I have ... the closest link I have to them, and I don't think I ever told you this before ... but I really, really like it when you tell me about how it was. It makes me feel ... better. I just think she's going to spoil it."  
  
"You're worried I love her more than you?"  
  
"I wouldn't put it like that ... it sounds wrong," said Harry.  
  
"Then, you're worried she'll get in the way?" suggested Sirius.  
  
Harry nodded. "I suppose," he muttered.  
  
"Oh Lord ... bloody issues," grinned Sirius. "Well ... I can't say that she won't ... and if you're expecting a life of carefree bachelorhood, then think again, because she used to have a thing about keeping the flat tidy ..."  
  
"That too," said Harry. "I just, wanted it to be us, and maybe Ron, sometimes, during the holidays. That's why I liked the cottage so much. It seemed right, my room was just like Ron's ... I always wanted a room like his ..."  
  
Sirius nodded. "I understand," he said. "Well ... Gwyneth isn't going to stop you having friends to stay ... if that's what's worrying you."  
  
"She might put Ron off," smirked Harry.  
  
Sirius gave a triumphant snort. "See ... you're smiling! You're happy really! Ha!"  
  
Harry, despite himself, found he was grinning. "Okay," he conceded. "But please believe me that I won't try and kill myself. I'm not that bad," he said.  
  
"I have every confidence in you, Harry," said Sirius, although his voice did not sound as though he meant it. "I'll leave you be ... go and see where Ron has got to with those drinks."  
  
**************  
  
He was being lead down a long, narrow passageway. The only light was cast by flickering torches, hanging in brackets from the walls, occasionally flaring angrily at the little group as it passed. The passage itself was dank and dingy, with a low, vaulted ceiling.  
  
"Keep moving there, boy."  
  
Harry did as he was told. He could feel the tip of somebody's wand pushing into the small of his back. His hands were cuffed together behind his back, and he could feel, but not see the tight, cold iron choke that had been clamped around his neck, forcing him to look forwards and up. His feet were bare; he could feel the freezing cold flagstones underneath their soles, and occasionally he trod in a puddle of what he prayed was only water. He was clad in a dirty brown tunic, which appeared to be made out of sackcloth ... it was certainly very scratchy, fastened at the waist by a piece of string. His hair and body felt dingy and unwashed.  
  
"Keep moving."  
  
Harry tried to respond, but the power of conscious speech seemed to have left him. He was forced rudely up a short flight of stairs, and out into the familiar Chamber of the High Court of Magic. He blinked in the sudden light, and now he could see just how packed the Chamber was. There was a gallery running all the way around the edge of it, which was crammed full of people, each and every one of them craning to get a better view of him. Harry strained to see anybody he knew, and to his relief and delight, spotted Mrs. Weasley, standing in the front row. He tried to open his mouth to talk to her, but she turned away, burying her head in her husband's arms.  
  
"Up to the stand now, come on."  
  
A great hush had descended across the Chamber. Harry found himself being forced up another flight of steps, and into the dock.  
  
"Will the Foreman of the Grand Jury please make himself known to this Court?"  
  
A lone man stood up ... and Harry immediately recognised him as Sirius, wearing the Juror's robes of deep purple, trimmed with gold leaf, the whole topped off with a pointed hat of truly epic proportions.  
  
"I am the Foreman of the Grand Jury."  
  
"What is your name?"  
  
"Your Grace, my name is Mr. Sirius Black. I am a Member of this Court, and a Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."  
  
"Mr. Black. Please confirm to this Court that you have been selected by an impartial source."  
  
"My name was drawn from the Fountain of Truth, ten days prior to the commencement of this trial," said Sirius. There was not a flicker of emotion on his face. "As is set down in the Book of Magical Lore, page sixteen, paragraph eight, clause two."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Black. This Court is now ready to hear the verdict."  
  
"Your Grace. In reaching our verdict today, the Grand Jury has deliberated upon the evidence laid down before it for six hours and ten minutes, in isolation in the Debating Chamber beneath this Court. Our conclusion, and thus our verdict, is unanimous. I am now in a position to deliver to you the verdict upon the Trial of Harry James Potter."  
  
Harry could feel bile rising in his stomach. He looked down, put his hands on the Dock to steady himself, for he was beginning to sway, and tried very hard not to vomit all down his front. He barely heard the Judge speak.  
  
"You may proceed."  
  
Sirius took a deep breath, coughed loudly to clear his throat, and glanced swiftly around the Courtroom.  
  
"By the power vested in me as Foreman of the Grand Jury of the High Court of Magic, upon this, the 13th day of December in the year 1995, I hereby pronounce the following. In the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Harry James Potter, the Defendant was charged with the following crime, which I shall now deliver my verdict upon ... "  
  
Sirius paused. His eyes flitted across the room, alighting on Harry, who suddenly felt very exposed indeed. Harry looked up, trying desperately to make eye contact with his Godfather, but Sirius stared straight through him, his face showing absolutely no trace of discernible emotion.  
  
Harry could take it no longer. Rising to his feet, he cried. "What? What did I do? What's going on?"  
  
"You will remain silent, Potter, until you are bidden to speak by this Court," said the Judge, banging his gavel on the lectern in front of him.  
  
"But I don't understand ..." began Harry ... but before he could get any further, one of the guards flanking him on either side had delivered a crippling rabbit punch to the kidneys, and Harry collapsed against the front of the Dock, wheezing. He could hear a whisper of concern rushing around the Chamber.  
  
"Any further interruptions and you will be held in contempt," said the Judge. "Harry James Potter, you stand before the High Court of Magic on this, the 13th day of December, in the year 1995, charged with the premeditated and unprovoked murder ..."  
  
He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Harry again heard the murmuring from the Spectators' Gallery.  
  
"... the murder of one Harry James Potter on the night of the 20th of November."  
  
The crowd sighed as one unit.  
  
"But that's impossible!" cried Harry. "I couldn't have done ... are you all mad?"  
  
"I repeat that any further disruption to the proceedings will result in a charge of Contempt of Court being laid at you. This will automatically add a sentence of two years to whatever gaol term I decide, in my leniency, that you must serve. I strongly suggest, Potter, that you remain silent."  
  
Harry gritted his teeth.  
  
Now Sirius spoke. "The verdict of the Grand Jury is as follows ..."  
  
"Sirius!" cried Harry. "I didn't ... I couldn't have ..."  
  
"Silence! Black ... you will speak now."  
  
Sirius nodded. "We find the Accused guilty on one count of murder, and recommend he serve not less than the minimum term."  
  
What sounded like a sigh of relief rushed around the chamber. One or two of the spectators whooped and threw their arms in the air.  
  
"Order, if you please," the Judge went on. "Harry James Potter. You have been found guilty on one count of murder of the highest degree. It is the recommendation of the Grand Jury of Magic that you serve not less than the minimum term, without possibility of parole."  
  
"Throughout this trial you have demonstrated complete contempt for the Justice system of this country, and have shown absolutely no remorse for having killed the boy who remains, to us, a hero of great renown. In your grossly selfish and despicable actions, you have succeeded in ridding us of our one hope in the fight against Darkness, and condemned us all to a time of great trial. It is my belief that you are a highly dangerous criminal, and that you are without hope of reform or redemption."  
  
"I therefore sentence you to the maximum, life term in Azkaban, without possibility of parole. You will be taken from this Court to the Isle of Azkaban immediately, where you will be incarcerated, permanently. Do you understand the terms of this sentence?"  
  
Harry found himself nodding. He was numb with disbelief, with shock beyond compare.  
  
"Guards, remove Potter forthwith, and hand him over to the Dementors."  
  
Harry screamed as the guards took him again around the arms, and began to drag him backwards out of the dock. He could hear laughter, see the spectators pointing and jeering at him ... he could recognise Hermione, and Ron, and Draco ... he kicked out in vain, wave after wave of cold, blinding terror sweeping through his tired, ragged body.  
  
"Don't make it harder on yourself," snarled one of the guards.  
  
"I didn't do it!" Harry screamed, as he was lead through the doorway, and into some kind of holding room. "It wasn't me ... how could it have been me?"  
  
The guards did not reply, and flung him harshly to the floor. And instantly, Harry's entire being was filled with a coldness so extreme and so horrible that he almost passed out. Slowly, he looked up. The Dementors were standing over him. He felt himself falling ...  
  
"Nooooooooo!"  
  
A bone jarring jolt hit his body, and instantly, his eyes snapped open. He was lying on the floor of the dormitory, the bedclothes wrapped around him. It was still dark outside, and he could hear the soft, reassuring tick of Ron's alarm clock, and Neville's snores. He checked his watch. It was twenty past three in the morning.  
  
"What a God awful dream," he said. Slowly, for his back was aching where he had struck the hard stone floor, he picked himself up, and rearranged the covers on his bed. He was just about to slide between the sheets again, and try and get back to sleep, when he happened to glance over at Ron's bed, and noticed it was empty.  
  
Ron was usually a pretty sound sleeper ... he rarely, if ever woke up in the middle of the night, and Harry had never known him get up before. But clearly, he had done, for the covers were thrown back, and his slippers and dressing gown, which he usually threw in a crumpled heap at the foot of his bed, were both gone.  
  
Harry wasn't immediately alarmed by this ... probably, he thought, Ron had just gone to get a glass of water, or use the toilet, or something. Thinking no more of it, he climbed back into bed, and tucked himself in. He was just about to settle back and close his eyes, when the door opened, and Ron stumbled back in. He was holding a glass of water, and he noticed Harry staring at him immediately.  
  
"You awake too?" he asked, tiptoeing across the room, and setting the glass down on his bedside table.  
  
Harry nodded. "Couldn't sleep?"  
  
"Yeah, that's it," said Ron, sipping from his glass. "I got thirsty ... I needed a drink."  
  
"You never usually get up in the middle of the night," whispered Harry.  
  
Ron looked defensive. "First time for everything," he grinned, slightly. "Why are you awake then?" he pulled off his slippers, and untied the cord on his dressing gown, throwing it to the floor. Then he leaned back, and buried his head in the pillows.  
  
"Bad dream," said Harry.  
  
Ron sat up again. "What about?"  
  
"Just ... stuff," said Harry. "Why so interested?"  
  
Ron looked away. "No particular reason," he said.  
  
Harry sighed. "It's Sirius, isn't it?" he asked.  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"He's asking you to keep an eye on me, isn't he?" said Harry. "God, Ron, can't you work out I don't want people looking after me?"  
  
"He just said to let him know," said Ron. "Come on, I'm still your friend, aren't I?"  
  
"I guess."  
  
"Then tell us about it," repeated Ron.  
  
Harry gave him a withering look.  
  
"Tell me, or I'll marmalise you," said Ron.  
  
"Okay," sighed Harry. "I was in some sort of court ... and it was me they were trying. They said I'd killed me, and then they sent me to Azkaban," it sounded so silly, so very, very trivial when he put it like that. "It's nothing, really," he added, in defence. Then he looked up, to see that Ron wasn't looking at him with an expression of ridicule on his face. He looked very concerned.  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
"You know what they say about dreams like that," said Ron. "I mean ... it's probably nothing ... actually, it is nothing. Forget I spoke. Forget I even exist, if you want ..."  
  
"You are not getting out of it that easily," said Harry. "What does that kind of dream mean?"  
  
"A dream where you've killed yourself?" said Ron. "It means you're going to kill somebody close to you, somebody very close to you."  
  
"You'd better drag out your bullet proof armour, then," said Harry. "We don't want you taking any risks ..."  
  
"Nah, it's an old wives' tale," said Ron. "Made up load of bollocks to frighten the kids, oh, and Harry ..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"How many times do I have to tell you? Muggle weapons don't work at Hogwarts," he crowed, in a cruel yet uncannily accurate impression of Hermione. "So you'd need to kill me with a wand, or knock me off my broom during Quidditch, or something," he added, his voice returning to its customary tone and pitch.  
  
"I shouldn't have bothered you," said Harry. "It was a stupid dream."  
  
"Don't worry. I had one the other night where I was lying naked in a vat of warm custard, and Professor Snape went cycling past singing the Chimney Sweep Song."  
  
"What, the one about the enormous broom?" asked Harry.  
  
"That's the one," said Ron, smiling. Neville turned over at that point, and snorted loudly. "Speak to you in the morning," he hissed, lying down again rapidly. Harry did the same, and as he drifted off to sleep again, he couldn't help but hear Ron's words running over and over in his head; 'you're going to kill somebody close to you.'  
  
Nah ... load of pants, he thought.  
  
END OF PART THREE.  



	4. Bad Omens

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
Most of the recognisable characters, locations and concepts belong in their entirety to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury and assorted other publishing houses and production companies worldwide. I recognise I have no rights over the characters, and do not imply control or ownership. Hell, it's just a bit of fun!  
  
A FEW NOTES.  
  
I simply cannot be arsed to write Hagrid's accent, so you'll just have to imagine it. Sorry!   
  
Now, skip this bit if you don't want to hear me rant. I've been getting several reviews demanding I make it D/H or H/H or whatever. As I've already stated, I have NO ship preference, and can barely contain my indifference as to who ends up with who, at least in canon. However, for the purposes of the plot there is one pairing that this story *will* end up as. This pairing is already set in stone. I have already written the closing chapter of this and I know how it will turn out. Nothing any reviews can say will make me change my mind on this, so sorry. Of course, feel free to keep on guessing happily, as I'm not going to give anything away now, but no demands please, because you'll only disappoint yourselves. Thanks for hearing me out on that score. And no, it isn't going to be Harry/Draco.  
  
PART FOUR. BAD OMENS.  
  
I am not frightened of dying,  
Any time will do.  
Why should I be frightened of dying? There is no reason for it.  
  
Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon.  
  
**************  
  
Harry very diligently managed to avoid looking at Doctor Jones during the Potions lesson unfortunately scheduled for Thursday morning. He could sense, throughout the double period, that she was trying to catch his eye, but he resolutely looked the other way as she paraded up and down the laboratory, eyeing their bubbling cauldrons with something approaching disdain.  
  
He was working on an empowerment solution with Ron and Hermione at the back of the classroom. But he was paying neither of them very much attention either. Ron's words to him the previous night had, truth to tell, chilled him to his bones. Sure, he did not believe for one second that he was actually going to kill somebody. As Ron said, it was an old wives' tale ... nothing at all to get worked up about. An urban myth.  
  
But as Harry was increasingly coming to find out, myth and reality in the magical world were far more closely linked than anybody actually gave them credit for.  
  
He tried to work out who he would most rather kill. A few short weeks ago, that choice would have been a very simple one: Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, or fortunately, thought Harry, if you were looking at it from Draco's point of view, there was now no way on earth he could kill Draco. The events that had transpired during their brief sojourn away from Hogwarts only a few weeks previously made sure of that. Harry's eyes roved around the classroom now, seeking out Draco's familiar silvery blond hair. Draco was quartering leopards' eyes for use in the potion, and looking supremely bored as he did so. Next to him, Blaise Zabini was cleaning out the cauldron they were sharing. Crabbe and Goyle had both come down with Dragon Fever following their Care of Magical Creatures practical with Hogwarts' now resident dragons, Bellerophon and Hermes. Draco didn't seem to have noticed they'd gone.  
  
True, though, he had not really spoken to Draco for some time. Not since that day in the woods, a couple of weeks back now, when Harry had found him sitting next to the small tarn in the Forbidden Forest that he himself often frequented during his darker moments. They had had an argument; Draco had run off. They had not spoken since. Indeed, Draco seemed to have withdrawn completely into himself and was not even speaking to Hermione any more. Harry itched to ask Hermione whether there still was anything between her and Draco, but knew that such a line of questioning would probably result in a knee in the groin, or at least a sharp slap around the face.  
  
Ron was looking at him quizzically over their cauldron, which he was stirring with a solid silver stirring rod. The potion was emitting little puffs of black smoke, which dissipated rapidly in the dank air of the castle dungeons.  
  
"You okay, Harry?" he asked.  
  
Harry nodded. "I guess so," he lied. "Just thinking, really."  
  
Ron smiled. "Nothing important?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Fair enough," said Ron, although the sly grin which spread across his face told Harry he considered the matter anything but closed. Indeed, a mere ten seconds had passed before he spoke again. "Hermione?"  
  
"Yes," said Hermione, looking up.  
  
"I was talking to Harry," said Ron firmly.  
  
"But Harry's name is Harry," said Hermione.  
  
"Oh shut up, Hermione," they both said at once.  
  
Hermione scowled, and muttered something that sounded very much like, "Boys!"  
  
Harry motioned at Ron. "Later," he hissed, over the cauldron.  
  
"Something wrong, boys?" asked Doctor Jones, who had crept up on them silently, possibly using some magical variant of Stealth technology.  
  
"Nothing," said Harry, fighting the urge to snap smartly to attention and throw a salute ... this woman couldn't possibly become his Mother ... not in a million years.  
  
"You might," hinted Doctor Jones, "want to check that stirring rod."  
  
Harry's eyes flicked instantly back to the cauldron. The rod was melting, disintegrating into a twisted mass of molten metal.  
  
"Bugger!" swore Ron, fishing it out and flinging it to the work surface.  
  
"Just a suggestion," smiled Doctor Jones, before bustling off to nag Neville Longbottom some more.  
  
"Oh, that went well," said Ron, sarcastically. Harry was showing Doctor Jones his middle finger underneath the workbench.  
  
"Bitch!" snarled Harry under his breath.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
"Well, she is," said Harry.  
  
"She's a bitch who's going to become your legal Mother and guardian in a few months," hissed Hermione.  
  
"That changes nothing," said Harry darkly. "I still hate her."  
  
"You were the one who was entertaining fantasies of wild six in a bed romps with ..."  
  
"I was not!" exclaimed Harry, blushing very, very red indeed. "Well, maybe ... once or twice. But you promised not to mention ..."  
  
"I also promised not to mention the six back issues of Playwizard that you bought off Fred and George in the Third Year," said Hermione. "Don't look at me like that ... I know you've got them."  
  
"So do I," admitted Ron, blushing.  
  
"You're evil," said Harry. "You're working for Voldemort, or something."  
  
Ron and Hermione both gave a start at the mention of the name.  
  
"You're not?" asked Harry, misinterpreting the gesture.  
  
They both shook their heads.  
  
"So, Hermione," said Ron loudly, changing the subject before Harry had a chance to get himself worked up again. "Any chance of some help with our potion this century?"  
  
"I thought," said Hermione snappily, glaring daggers at Ron, "that you had shunned my company ..."  
  
"Well, whatever gave you that idea?" asked Ron. "Now help stir or something."  
  
**************  
Sinead sat nervously opposite Dumbledore's desk, the files open on her lap. Dumbledore perused the sheet of parchment he was holding up as if it held the secret of life itself. Eventually satisfied, he returned it to the desk.  
  
There was an awkward pause.  
  
"You think this is true?" asked Dumbledore, making a steeple out of his fingers and staring at her over the tops of his glasses. Sinead, for all her medical training, could not shake the feeling that she was back at Hogwarts, being reprimanded for something trivial, like that thing with Keith.  
  
"With respect, sir ..."  
  
"Albus," said Dumbledore, the syllables tripping gently off his tongue.  
  
"Albus," Sinead corrected herself. "With respect, Albus, yes."  
  
"I see," said Dumbledore. He said nothing further, as if silently bidding Sinead to explain herself. It was quite unnerving.  
  
"Well," she said, flustered, after a few brief seconds had passed. "Judging by their, um, past history, and other stuff like that. I think the conclusions are, well, perfectly adequate and speak for themselves. We could nail those bloody Dursleys," Dumbledore raised a finger to calm her. "Sorry, be objective, objective," she repeated to herself like a mantra. "We could get Harry's family on at least twenty counts of neglect and mental abuse. Um, as for Draco. Well, that's a difficult case, and it was altogether more systematic. The Dursleys just used abuse to justify their hatred of Harry, sending them into a negative shame cycle ..."  
  
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.  
  
"A ... um, a thing where, they don't feel very good," said Sinead. It was all right when she was with a client. Why did Dumbledore put her off so? She couldn't shake the mental picture she now had of Keith, who had shown up at the Leavers' Ball in a kilt. "So, um, with Draco, abuse was used as a means to an end, to show the boy that the parents maintained dominance in their relationship, and also to terrify him into submission."  
  
"I see. What about the Weasleys, and Hermione?"  
  
"They have very stable backgrounds," said Sinead ... here she felt on more familiar ground. "It was just a case of running them back through their stories. As witnessed by the brevity of their reports."  
  
"You had no problems with any of them?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
Sinead shook her head. "I had to use tactics with Draco once," she said. "But apart from that, they all seemed quite willing to talk." Especially Harry, she thought. She had had difficulty shutting him up once or twice.  
  
"All right then," said Dumbledore. "Now, what's the procedure from here?"  
  
"I'd like to get them in for group therapy, maybe one or two sessions," said Sinead. "Talk through their experiences with one another. I get the feeling that would be especially helpful for Draco."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"Harry and the others have an extensive support network built up around them," said Sinead, making the appropriate hand movements that she remembered from her university lectures. "They are very interdependent on one another for psychological support, especially Harry and Ron, who have an excellent relationship. I gather they've been friends since the First Year?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded.  
  
"It shows," said Sinead. "When you have a group of three children in this kind of relationship, two generally are closer than the third. I have no idea why this should be. Anyway, they have this network which they can fall back on. It means they won't come down quite so hard after any future traumatic death experiences, um."  
  
"And Draco?"  
  
"Draco does not. Draco has constructed an elaborate web of justifications and opinions around himself in order to account for being the way he is. Actually, he has very low self-esteem, which shows once you get through this outer shell that he projects around himself. He probably isn't aware he's even doing it. Draco's mental shields are lower, to put it simply. He cannot react in the same way as the others, simply because he is emotionally disadvantaged."  
  
"As a result of his upbringing."  
  
"Very probably. He also has no friends," said Sinead. "Which doesn't help ..."  
  
"What do you recommend we do about that?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
"Well, I'm keeping his notes on file, and if you ever need me again, then I'm only an owl away," said Sinead. "I suggest you monitor his progress closely. With the death of his parents, he's going to be feeling very insecure. I would encourage him to spend more time with Harry and Ron, although I appreciate that may be easier said than done."  
  
"You're lodging a copy of the report here with us?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
Sinead nodded. "That's standard procedure," she said. "I keep a copy for my permanent records, and two other copies go to St. Mungo's to be put on file, and in this case, copies of Harry and Draco's reports will be lodged with the Department of Magical Social Services in London."  
  
"Very well," said Dumbledore. "What about Harry?"  
  
"Well, what about him?" asked Sinead.  
  
"Your conclusions. What should we do?"  
  
"Well," said Sinead, looking awkwardly about the study. The sessions with Harry had been amongst the hardest she had ever had to do. And having come into contact with several other children whose cases had been on a par with his, that was saying something.  
  
Dumbledore was regarding her carefully. "Whatever you think best is what we will do," he prompted.  
  
"Watch him," said Sinead. "Watch Harry like a hawk. He's ... well, he's lovely and all. But he's not right. He has a lot to get off his chest, a lot of mourning to get done that he never did before. The events of the last few weeks have kind of acted as a catalyst."  
  
Dumbledore nodded.  
  
"I think," Sinead continued, "that Harry was never like this beforehand, before the kidnapping, purely because he never really knew. Nobody had ever really told him, told him what happened. The enormity of it had never hit home before, and, well, now it has. That's what's causing the problems."  
  
Dumbledore nodded again. "Very well," he said.  
  
**************  
  
Sirius cast his eyes swiftly about the Staff Common Room, taking in the tableau before him. The room was furnished in an opulent 'Olde English' smoking room style, that existed probably nowhere else in reality save a Hollywood sound stage. The walls were of oak panelling, and scattered liberally about the room were any number of obscenely comfortable armchairs, banquettes and footstools. In one corner was a small bar, perpetually manned by two of the kitchen's more presentable House Elves, dispensing coffee and biscuits. One whole wall was lined with bookshelves containing ancient looking tomes, another held their pigeonholes, which were crammed full of post and bits of scrap paper, and a vast cupboard that held spare robes and cloaks. French windows opened out onto a balcony which overlooked Hogwarts' central courtyard, across which pupils were streaming outside to take advantage of the sunny weather. Several of them were whacking bewitched tennis balls with rounders bats, and watching them through the windows, Sirius remembered fondly the mass games of Quidditch they used to have on the lawns.  
  
The room was not yet crowded. The bell for morning break had only just sounded, and presumably most of other professors were still tidying up after their lessons. Indeed, the room's only other occupants were Gwyneth and tiny Professor Flitwick.  
  
Sirius favoured Professor Flitwick with a smile, and went over to sit down next to Gwyneth, who was reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. The headline was screaming about further turmoil within the ministry. Apparently there had been a high level internal coup, and the hard-line hawks had very nearly succeeded in ousting Fudge from power.  
  
"Is all well with your world?" asked Sirius, sitting down in the armchair next to her.  
  
Gwyneth jumped in surprise. "Dear Lord, Sirius. You shouldn't creep up on me like that!"  
  
He leant forwards and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Well?" he asked. "What's new?"  
  
Gwyneth folded her paper, and set it back down on the coffee table next to her. "I just had Potions with the Fifth Years," she said.  
  
"That sounds ominous," began Sirius. "What did they do to you?"  
  
Gwyneth sighed, and smacked her lips involuntarily. "It was Harry's class," she said softly. "Sirius. I know I said to you I'd try, but Harry seems so entrenched, so resentful of me ... I'm just not sure I can cope with having to live with him."  
  
"Are you breaking up with me?" asked Sirius, lowering his voice to be sure Flitwick couldn't hear them.  
  
Gwyneth shook her head hurriedly. "Heavens above ... no!" she exclaimed. "Sirius, I do love you, and I want to be able to love Harry desperately. God knows the kid needs it."  
  
Sirius gave her a sympathetic look. "We've had this chat at least six times in the last week," he said. "Marriage is all about compromise, don't you think?"  
  
"Hah!" snorted Gwyneth. "Don't you think the compromise here is coming mainly from me?"  
  
"No, no, no, no," said Sirius, hurriedly. "That wasn't really what I meant at all. I meant Harry will have to compromise as well. I'm not going to stop being in love with you just because my kid doesn't like it."  
  
"You're even calling him your kid," said Gwyneth glumly. "You've yet to tell anybody that I'm your fiancée."  
  
"I thought," replied Sirius, "that we agreed to keep that a secret for a few weeks, until we've organised the feast and the catering."  
  
"Well, nobody at school knows," said Gwyneth. "Who else?"  
  
"I've told Remus," said Sirius. "He's coming up from Chudley later today. We're going to look for dress robes on Saturday ..."  
  
"I'm glad to see you're being proactive," said Gwyneth.  
  
Sirius nodded. "Proactive is my middle name ... although actually that isn't true, my middle name is Eamonn. But it sounds a bit like proactive ..."  
  
"In what language? Serbo-Croatian? I suppose Harry knows," said Gwyneth.  
  
Sirius nodded again. "Oh, of course, I couldn't really get away without telling him, could I?" he reasoned. "After all, I thought we wanted him to be a page boy."  
  
"Best man, wasn't it?" asked Gwyneth. "I'm not sure Harry will take to kindly to being my page ..." her words trailed off, and she began to conduct an intensive survey of her fingernails.  
  
"Remus is best man. I asked him the other day by owl. Anyway, I would assume Harry has told Ron and Hermione, too," said Sirius.  
  
"So the whole bloody school knows," said Gwyneth, smiling to show that despite this, she was not really very angry. "And yet I'm forbidden to owl my own father and break the news to him."  
  
"Not for a while, eh?" said Sirius. "Let's make sure we really want this, to go through with it, before we start mailing out invitations to all and sundry."  
  
"But I already do know I want it," said Gwyneth. "I've never wanted anything so much. It's just the Harry Factor ..."  
  
"Huh, that's quite a good name for it, actually."  
  
Gwyneth nodded. "Sounds like a Tom Clancy novel ..."  
  
"Tom's done what now?"  
  
Gwyneth smiled at the object of her affections. It was very easy to forget just how much time he had spent in prison, how much of life he had missed out on, both wizarding and Muggle. Indeed, she did it with surprising regularity.  
  
"Forget it," she said. "Sirius, would it be worth us all having a sit down and a talk with Harry?"  
  
"You mean like a family counselling session?" suggested Sirius. "I guess that might work. We could ask Sinead, if she's still here ..."  
  
Gwyneth raised her eyebrows inquisitively. "Sinead?"  
  
"The psychiatrist," said Sirius. "You'll have seen her round. Dumbledore says she used to go to Hogwarts, a few years after we did. Anyway. She was telling me she wanted to fix up some kind of group therapy session for the kids. Perhaps we could sit in, eh?"  
  
"I'd hardly feel comfortable spilling out the inner secrets of my psyche in front of Draco Malfoy, now," said Gwyneth.  
  
"Hmm, maybe not," said Sirius. The Common Room was beginning to fill up as the other Professors drifted in from their far flung classes. Only Dumbledore was conspicuously absent. "Look," he went on, "I'll go and have a word with Harry. He has Care of Magical Creatures next. I'll see if I can get Hagrid to let me take him away for a minute or two."  
  
**************  
  
Hagrid was standing by the edge of the paddock he had had erected at the side of his hut, and squelching about within the paddock itself were five giant slug-like creatures. Atop their heads were perched two beady yellow eyes, and their mouths were filled with row upon row of short, pointy fangs. From their lips dripped vile, chocolate coloured drool, and tiny, useless, stubby arms waved frantically in the air. A foul smell; a mixture of rotting flesh and overcooked cabbage was emanating from them. Without exception, all the children recoiled in disgust. Hermione was suddenly put in mind of Jabba the Hutt.  
  
"What the hell are those ugly things?" Draco drawled. He was leaning over the paddock fence.  
  
Hagrid ignored him. Harry put his foot up on the fence to be better able to see.  
  
"I wouldn't do that!" Hagrid yelled. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and one of the strange beasts surged forward and clamped its teeth onto the sleeve of Harry's robe, slobbering horribly. Harry shrieked and fell backwards. There was a ripping sound, and a roar of laughter from the Slytherins, and then Harry landed on his back in the grass.  
  
"They're hungry," said Hagrid, as Harry picked himself up. The sleeve of his shirt was covered in saliva. "You okay?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Nice look," said Ron.  
  
"The one armed robe? Of course, I was planning it all along," said Harry in a hurt tone of voice.  
  
"These are Bugblatter Beasts," said Hagrid, looking immensely proud of his new charges.  
  
"What?" exclaimed Draco.  
  
"Bugblatter Beasts," repeated Hagrid, looking downcast.  
  
"And what," began Draco, "do we do with these creatures? Take them for walks?"  
  
"They're hungry," began Hagrid, uncertainly, his eyes roving about the class, looking for support. Hermione gave him a grin.  
  
"Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts, eh?" asked Draco. Smirks were creeping across the faces of the Slytherins.  
  
"And you're going to be feeding them," said Hagrid.  
  
"Feeding them!" exclaimed Draco. "Oh, why didn't I guess?"  
  
There was a time a few weeks earlier when Hermione would have jumped down Draco's throat for saying that. However, on this occasion she limited herself to a nasty glare, which seemed to do the trick, for Draco shut up instantly. Hagrid, who of course had not been present for the first few weeks of term, could only look completely stunned.  
  
"Um ... what exactly are we going to be feeding them?" Seamus Finnegan asked.  
  
Hagrid smiled through his bushy expanse of beard, and gestured to the large barrel which was standing beside them. The stench of rotten meat was almost overpowering. To the collective horror of the class, he reached in, and pulled out a whole boar's head, tusks and all.  
  
"Scottish Blueblood," he said. "A fearsome pig, if ever there was one. A rutting Scottish Blueblood could disembowel any one of you, if he got angry enough, and he probably would. They're also a bugger to catch ..."  
  
"Why not feed them ordinary pigs then?" asked Dean Thomas.  
  
"Bugblatter Beasts are very proud creatures," said Hermione, her eyes taking on that glazed look that they always did when she began reciting chunks of the textbook. "They'd perceive it as an insult to be fed anything else ..."  
  
"No Economy Value Sausages for them, then," joked Harry. Dean, Hermione and the other Muggle born pupils smiled. The witches and wizards just looked confused.  
  
"Boo! Get off!" heckled Draco.  
  
Harry gave Draco a patronising look, which was returned in kind. Hagrid, looking more confused than ever, held the boar's head, which was covered in caked blood, just out of range of the grip of the creatures' spindly little hands.  
  
"Anybody want to have a go?" asked Hagrid. Both Draco and Harry started forwards at the same moment. Harry, spotting the look on Draco's face, veered off and backed down.  
  
"Or both of you at once," said Hagrid. "I ain't complaining."  
  
Draco gave Harry a sly grin, and clambered over the fence in a single, fluid motion. Harry followed, a little more clumsily.  
  
"Now," Hagrid said, stepping in between the two boys as if not entirely certain they weren't about to hex one another. "I want you both to take a boar's head, and hold in clearly in front of the beasties so that they can see what you're doing."  
  
"After you, Potter," smirked Draco  
  
Harry rolled up the remaining sleeve of his robes diligently, and looking the other way, plunged his hand into the giant barrel. The stench emanating from within was very nearly overpowering; it was that of rotting meat, decaying flesh mixed with something else, something strong and alcoholic that made Harry suspect the barrel had once been used for storing beer.  
  
He closed his eyes, and grimaced, much to the amusement of the Slytherins, as his fingers made contact with something greasy and slimy. Gingerly, he closed his hand around the offending object, and withdrew it from the barrel. At this action, he heard the sound of the Bugblatter Beasts slobbering at him. He opened his eyes to see a rush of green heading towards him across the grass. Hagrid let out a roar.  
  
"Back, little bugger!"  
  
There was a noise like a sock filled with custard hitting a wall, and the Bugblatter Beast withdrew to the other end of the paddock, where it continued to slobber noisily in the company of its own kind.  
  
Harry chanced a peek at what he was holding, and was shocked to the core to discover that he had picked out what appeared to be a bony white skull, with only a few remnants of putrid flesh clinging to it in bloody strips. The eye sockets appeared to be staring at him, and he almost dropped it on the spot.  
  
"Watch the professionals do it, Potter," sneered Draco, reaching into the barrel without even bothering to roll up his sleeves. He came up with a head that was still largely intact, the greasy eyeballs were most unsettling.  
  
"Okay," said Hagrid. "So, you've got your boars' heads, and now you need to feed the Bugblatter Beasts. Harry, want to go first?"  
  
Harry shook his head, but stepped forwards anyway. The Bugblatter Beasts eyed him hungrily, and he got the feeling they would sooner nibble on him than on the disgusting appendage that dangled from his hand.  
  
"Hey ... Harry!"  
  
He stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the voice, and turned around, still clutching the boar's head. Sirius was approaching the paddock at a trot, his long, tangled black hair bouncing up and down as he came.  
  
"Can I borrow him for a minute?" he called to Hagrid, who sighed, and nodded reluctantly.  
  
"Cheers!"  
  
Harry replaced the boar's head in the barrel, and throwing a last look back at the Bugblatter Beasts, scrambled back over the fence, and started to walk up the hill towards Sirius. The others watched him go. It wouldn't normally have bothered him, but he could sense everybody looking at him, wondering what on earth could possibly have happened to Harry Potter now. In the background, he could hear Hagrid giving Draco and the others instructions.  
  
Sirius stopped on a low rise a little way from the paddock, and as Harry reached him, clapped his hand on his shoulder in a gesture Harry supposed he must interpret as a friendly one.  
  
"You okay, kid?"  
  
"I'm *not* a kid," Harry said firmly, feeling his ears burning.  
  
"Very well," said Sirius, absent-mindedly. "Look, I was wondering if I could take up a few minutes of your time to have a little chat?"  
  
"Clearly," said Harry, reasoning he probably had little choice in the matter.  
  
Sirius smiled. "That's good," he said. "Is there anywhere we could sit down ..."  
  
"I know a spot in the Forest," began Harry, before catching himself. The Forbidden Forest was out of bounds for a reason, and he did not want Sirius to know he had been going there. Thankfully, Sirius did not appear to have heard him. Instead, he continued to lead Harry away from Hagrid's class, up the hill towards the castle, then veering off to the left by the lake.  
  
"I thought," said Sirius, "it might be nice if we all went out for dinner, or something, at the weekend. It's Hogsmeade again on Saturday, we could take a trip in en famille."  
  
"Which family?" Harry asked through gritted teeth.  
  
"Well, me, you and Gwyn," said Sirius. "We kind of are ... don't you think?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Wouldn't you like to be?" asked Sirius.  
  
Harry shrugged. Sirius went on. "Well, I'd like you to be. I really, really would. And I know you don't think there's anything that can replace your proper family, and in a way, you're quite right, there isn't. But I'd quite like to think ..."  
  
"Stop babbling, Sirius," said Harry unkindly, wrestling free of his Godfather's grip. He did *not* need this at all. He got enough annoying psychobabble from Sinead.  
  
"Come on, Harry," said Sirius, dropping back to walk a couple of paces behind the boy.  
  
"It isn't that," said Harry, a little tearfully. "It really isn't that. I do want that, but I don't think I can get that from you and Gwyneth, Doctor Jones, I mean ..."  
  
"You can call her Gwyneth if you'd like," said Sirius. "I think she'd draw the line at Auntie."  
  
"That's okay then," said Harry sarcastically, he had not been intending to call Gwyneth anything of the sort.  
  
"Harry," said Sirius. "I don't know what I can say that's going to make you feel any better about this."  
  
"Maybe I want to be miserable," sniffed Harry.  
  
"Bet you don't," said Sirius playfully. "Bet you a Galleon you don't."  
  
Harry shrugged.  
  
"Okay, so you're not in the mood for light-heartedness, that's okay too," said Sirius. He noted with alarm that Harry seemed to be picking up his pace, and he was having to walk quite fast to keep up with the boy.  
  
"You think?" snapped Harry, whirling round to face him. Even Sirius, who was not very good at reading people's emotions from their faces, could tell from Harry's expression that he was on the verge of blowing a major tantrum, or something very similar.  
  
"Look," said Sirius, "I can't make you like Gwyneth."  
  
"Damn right you can't."  
  
"Harry!" shouted Sirius, losing his rag at long last.  
  
Harry, who had been mooching along the path a few feet ahead of Sirius, dragging his shoes in the mud and staring intently at his laces, snapped his head up. There was fire in his eyes.  
  
"Piss off and leave me alone!"  
  
Sirius spread his arms in submission. "Harry, please, kid, give me a break ..."  
  
"I'm not a damn kid!" yelled Harry.  
  
Sirius tried to take a step closer. "I just want to help," he said imploringly. "Look, Sinead's asked us for another session."  
  
"Us?"  
  
"Yeah, all of us," said Sirius, taking a step closer. This time Harry didn't back away or anything, and Sirius began to feel relieved that he seemed to be calming down.  
  
"What for?" Harry's robes were ruffling about him in the wind.  
  
"Just to talk," said Sirius. "She asked me if I would like to sit in, and Gwyneth will be there, and Draco. And I just thought we ought all to have a chat. See if we can't all get over this thing."  
  
"You sound like a movie trailer," said Harry, although his mouth cracked into its usual, familiar toothy smile.  
  
"About seven," Sirius went on. "As soon as dinner is over? We might as well have something to eat beforehand."  
  
Harry twisted his foot awkwardly in the mud. "Okay."  
  
Sirius smiled. "That's okay then," he said. "I know you'll like Gwyneth really. She's a super girl, and you already know how much I ..." he stopped. Harry glared.  
  
"Let's get one thing straight, if you guys want to play at being doting parents, I'm having none of it," said Harry. "And I don't care how much you're head over heels in love with her."  
  
"Come now, Harry. That's a bit harsh," said Sirius.  
  
"No harsher than what I'm used to," began Harry, hanging his head. Sirius realised what he meant.  
  
"Harry, if I could change the last fourteen years around, then believe me I would. If I could have a time turner, just to go back and persuade your Mum and Dad to stick with me instead of that yellow rat Pettigrew. I'd love to be able to do that. But you know yourself, changing time is a big no-no."  
  
Harry looked up again. His eyes appeared to be filling with tears, and against all reason, Sirius fleetingly thought, 'oh bugger, here we go again.'  
  
"It couldn't hurt," he said wistfully.  
  
Sirius shook his head. "It can't be done," he said. "You know the risks as well as the next man. Harry, you have to believe me when I say that I'm as sorry as anyone that you ended up with those bloody Dursleys. I only met them once, mind. They turned up to your Mum and Dad's wedding ... your Uncle was wearing a hideous kipper tie. No? Bad joke?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Course," he said, "you know how come I ended up at the Dursleys', don't you?"  
  
"What d'you mean?" asked Sirius.  
  
Harry took a step closer. "You swapped Secret Keepers without telling anybody. You could have told Dumbledore, or someone. You didn't even have to do it ..."  
  
"Come on, Harry. That's a bit below the belt."  
  
"So sue me," snarled Harry. "No, *don't* come any closer to me. You remember the day we first met?"  
  
Sirius did. He remembered it very well; as if it had been yesterday, to coin a cliché.  
  
"You said that you as good as murdered my parents," said Harry. "Well, now I believe you. Now I know what you were. I can see you for what you are."  
  
"Harry," began Sirius, "please stop! You don't need to do this to either of us!"  
  
"Shut up!" yelled Harry. "You're a stinking coward. You were just afraid for you and Gwyneth! You weren't being honourable, or anything like that. You were just saving your own rotten hide!"  
  
Harry ducked nimbly out of the way as Sirius lunged at him.  
  
"How dare you!" Sirius was yelling.  
  
Harry began to walk backwards away from Sirius. The boy's face was showing a mixture of sadness, pain and worry, the corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes red and bloodshot.  
  
"Come back here!" snapped Sirius.  
  
"Everyone's done this to me!" Harry managed to stammer out, though he wasn't sure how, for his throat was constricted, his head ached through shouting, and he was blinking to keep back the tears that he knew were coming, try as he might to stop them. "Every single one of you. Every bloody adult who's ever known me! You're all as bad as each other. It's quite all right for you to lecture us all about having principles and not lying and not snitching on anyone and not being a coward but you're all free to do whatever you bloody well like! I'm sick of it. I've had enough of you all. You can all go screw yourselves, as far as I'm concerned."  
  
Sirius made another grab at Harry, and this time succeeded in grabbing him by his shirtfront. Harry felt himself being pulled upright until he was looking into Sirius' eyes, and he had never seen him look so angry before. Instinctively, the skill honed through years of living with the Dursleys, Harry flung his arm up to shield his face from the blow he thought was coming, but nothing happened.  
  
"Get out of my sight!" snarled Sirius, their faces so close they were almost touching. He let go of Harry's collar suddenly. "Never, ever insult anybody like that again! You think the whole fucking world revolves around you, don't you?"  
  
"That's not true!" Harry blurted out.  
  
"Oh shut up!" said Sirius. "It's all one big arrogant ego trip for you, isn't it? Nobody else is allowed to have any feelings or any opinions, and everyone has to defer to precious little Harry Potter! Take a long, hard look at yourself, Harry. You're not going to like what you see! Now piss off!"  
  
Harry did not need telling twice, with a final muffled curse at Sirius, he turned abruptly on his heels, and ran back to the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. He charged across the hall and up the main marble staircases, his footfall thudding loudly as he went. So lost was he in his anger that he barely noticed when he ran straight into Professor McGonagall, who was heading the other way, holding a load of exercise books and looking flustered about something. Nor did he stop to help her pick them up, and by the time she had gotten around to taking five points away from Gryffindor, he had turned the corner into the next corridor and was out of earshot.  
  
The Fat Lady was off visiting, it being during lessons, but thankfully for Harry the last person out had forgotten to close the door properly, and it swung open easily under his touch. He ran straight across the Common Room and up the stairs to his dormitory, where he flung himself onto his bed and wrenched shut the hangings.  
  
**************  
  
Ron detached himself from Hermione, who, frankly, was being very annoying about something to do with their Transfiguration homework, as soon as was politely possible, and having finished lunch (shepherd's pie) headed up to Gryffindor Tower to see if he couldn't find Harry. From what he had seen, Sirius had taken him away for a chat, which sounded in itself rather ominous, during the Care of Magical Creatures lesson with Hagrid. About ten or fifteen minutes later, Sirius had appeared without Harry, walked straight past the rest of them and disappeared into Hagrid's hut, slamming the door behind him. Naturally, Ron was more than a little alarmed at this.  
  
His worst fears were, thankfully, not confirmed as soon as he entered the dormitory and heard what sounded suspiciously like a low pitched moaning sound coming from Harry's bed. Surmising that this was Harry, he tiptoed over to the bedside. The bed's occupant was evidently unaware of his presence, for he sniffed loudly.  
  
"Harry?" ventured Ron.  
  
"Go away!"  
  
"It's me," said Ron. "Can I come in?"  
  
"Knock yourself out," snapped Harry. Ron sensibly took this as a yes, and opened the hangings a fraction.  
  
Harry was lying on his stomach on top of the covers, his face buried in his pillows, his glasses askew.  
  
"What's up?" asked Ron.  
  
Silence.  
  
"Bad question?"  
  
There was the faintest of affirmative grunts from Harry.  
  
"Want to talk?"  
  
Harry issued a muffled squeak that sounded like it might have been a 'no,' but could very easily have been a 'yes' as well.  
  
"Gwyneth or Sirius?"  
  
Harry looked up at this, and Ron was, for a moment, shocked to see what had happened to his face. He was gaunt and pale and blotchy. His eyes were red and puffy and still moist with tears.  
  
"Both," he said curtly. "They're both as bad as each other."  
  
Ron didn't know what to say to this. "What happened?" he asked, after a considerable pause.  
  
"Sirius," said Harry presently. "I think he hates me."  
  
Ron nearly snorted with laughter. "He doesn't hate you at all," he said. "But I'd say whatever you said to him, it cut him up some."  
  
"How d'you know what I said?" Harry asked, pulling himself into a sitting position, and regarding Ron over the tops of slanted spectacles.  
  
"Sirius went straight into Hagrid's hut afterwards," said Ron, "and he wouldn't come out. Hagrid was banging on the door to get let in after we left. Hermione saw him."  
  
"I told him the truth," said Harry. "That's all I told him."  
  
"No, you hurt him," said Ron.  
  
"Oh, sod this," Harry's tone suddenly became one of anger. "I'm not going to sit around taking this from my friend."  
  
He made as if to get up, but Ron blocked him in.  
  
"Move, Weasley."  
  
"If you don't sit there and talk to me about this I'll tell the entire school I saw you and Draco getting off behind the broomshed," said Ron, without compassion.  
  
"Heartless git!" snapped Harry.  
  
"Self-centred little wanker!" retorted Ron.  
  
Harry's face fell visibly.  
  
"Sorry," said Ron hurriedly. "You know I didn't mean that, surely."  
  
Harry sniffed again.  
  
"Want a tissue?"  
  
Harry shook his head. After a minute or so had passed, during which both boys just sat on Harry's bed and didn't do much of anything, Harry finally spoke. "What's wrong with me?"  
  
Ron looked awkwardly around. He had a very bad feeling he should not be having this conversation. This was a matter for that psychiatrist woman. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you," he said, finally. "I think you're staggeringly normal."  
  
"Like that helps," said Harry.  
  
"You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you," Ron said, flustered. "Why ask if you don't want to know what I think?"  
  
"Yeah, sorry," said Harry quietly.  
  
"Perhaps you ought to go and talk to Sirius," said Ron.  
  
Harry shook his head so violently that his glasses fell off. He picked them up again, and jammed them clumsily back onto his face. "Couldn't do that," he said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I'm not nearly sensible enough for that yet," said Harry. This made Ron smile. "I'd only end up biting his head off or something."  
  
"Okay," said Ron. "But you aren't sitting up here all day feeling sorry for yourself. I won't allow it. You've already missed lunch."  
  
Harry looked surprised at this intelligence. "Oh well," he said, finally, "I wasn't exactly hungry anyway."  
  
"That's the spirit," said Ron, without really meaning it at all. "Look, I reckon you should maybe give them a chance. They're as new to this happy families game as you are. You can learn together."  
  
Harry looked disgusted. "Sorry, bit of a schmaltz overload there," he said. "What are you trying to do? Turn me into a living, breathing episode of Leave It To Beaver?"  
  
"Maybe not then, eh?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I don't want to be part of that family anyway," he said. "I just wanted to live with Sirius, and for everything to be okay. But now there are moments when I just wonder why I don't go back to Privet Drive and be thankful for what I've got."  
  
"You'll regret saying that."  
  
"Hard to see why," snorted Harry.  
  
"It'll come true. Better to live in some weird, clapped out sitcom than with those raving Muggle lunatics," said Ron, expectorating the last three words violently, as if disgusted by merely pronouncing them.  
  
"Sirius wants us to have a group chat," Harry went on. "With Draco and that Irish shrink. What do you think of that?"  
  
"It can only help," ventured Ron, who was increasingly coming to terms with the fact that the best way to calm Harry down was to tell him what he wanted to hear, rather than what he didn't.  
  
"You're invited," Harry cut into Ron's train of thought, and sent it plunging down an embankment.  
  
"I'd rather not," said Ron. "That woman scares me."  
  
"Why?" asked Harry.  
  
"The way she plays with her biro between each question," said Ron. "And that funny thing she does with her eyes. It's weird."  
  
"Are you coming then?" asked Harry, changing the subject.  
  
"Maybe," said Ron, noncommittally.  
  
They sat in awkward silence for another couple of minutes. Downstairs, Ron could hear people chatting happily to one another in the Common Room, and he cursed fate for having landed him with the one friend who managed to get himself into these irresolvable situations. He could have been downstairs, just kidding around with Dean, or Seamus or Neville. He shouldn't have to be up here, playing confidante to Harry. He should be doing normal teenage things. He stopped, and looked at Harry, and for a moment in his eyes he caught a glimpse of the boy who had been sitting, huddled in a corner of his compartment, that first day on the Hogwarts Express. Very lost, very alone, very ignorant, and very new.  
  
Wasn't that why they were friends?  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Knut for your thoughts," he said.  
  
"Nothing important," said Ron. "I'll come to your silly group therapy session, okay?"  
  
From the look of happiness that spread across Harry's, up until that moment forlorn face, he could tell he had made the 'right' decision in his friend's eyes.  
  
"Thanks," said Harry huskily. "That means a lot to me."  
  
"Your voice is changing," said Ron.  
  
Harry nodded. "I know, you aren't the first one to have commented," he said.  
  
The dormitory door swung open, and Neville came in, accompanied by Seamus.  
  
"We were just about to take our Potions essays down to the lab," said Neville, who looked, as always, very flustered indeed. "Do you want us to take yours?"  
  
Harry nodded. He reached into his cupboard, and pulled out the crumpled sheets of parchment upon which his essay was written. He handed it over to Neville. Ron got up, and went to collect his parchment from his satchel, telling the others he'd left it in the Common Room.  
  
"You okay, Harry?" asked Neville.  
  
"Bollocks, you've been crying again," said Seamus. "I mean ... um, not that it matters, or anything, but you're not okay, are you, Harry?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "Afraid not," he said.  
  
Neville tucked the essays into his rucksack. For a moment Harry debated asking for his back, but decided against it. He had burned that particular boat. His mind was made up, and no amount of cajoling or comforting from Ron could stop him. He would do it that evening.  
  
**************  
  
But when the time came to actually do it, Harry nearly had second thoughts, nearly got cold feet, nearly turned back. He knew he was being stupid, he knew he was being selfish and arrogant and priggish, but the little voice of reason in his mind that normally tells such things seemed oddly subdued as, looking as innocent as possible, he slipped out of the castle following the last lesson of the day, shook off Ron, who had been keeping an unusually close eye on him all afternoon, and headed vaguely in the direction of Hagrid's little hut. Smoke was pouring from the chimney, and bright candlelight was flickering in the windows. Normally, Harry might have stopped for a chat or a cup of tea or something, but today he walked with a more definite purpose in mind. He passed Hagrid's hut without being spotted, and walked slowly along the fringes of the Forbidden Forest, occasionally tripping on obscured roots and things, until he reached the school's boundary fence, nominally little more than a couple of strands of barbed wire held up between wooden stakes. Beyond here he was free.  
  
Harry took a deep breath, and scrambled over the fence, snaring, as he did so, his robes upon the jagged barbed wire. There was a frightful ripping sound, and he collapsed face first to the boggy ground with a splat.  
  
"Bugger," he breathed, picking himself up. His face was still red and slick with tears, there were dark rings around both his eyes.  
  
He kicked the fencepost viciously, swore at it. Then looked back up the way he had come. Hogwarts castle was sitting, solidly as ever, atop the hill, lights blazing in the twilit sky, looking like some kind of Christmas tree, or maybe a space ship. Behind it, silhouetted against the setting sun were the peaks. Hog's Head, the Cheviot, and several others whose names escaped Harry, such was his present mood.  
  
In any normal circumstances, Harry's heart would have been filled with something approaching joy at that altogether singular sight. To approach a lighted building after dark, and to know that inside that building is hot food and friends, people who care for you, is arguably one of the best feelings a person can have, and certainly is up there with ice cream and cake mix. But, he thought, as he turned away from the castle, these were hardly normal circumstances. Indeed, had there ever been any normal circumstances? Harry knew for sure that he was not normal, at all. No semblance of anything approaching a childhood; it was frankly a miracle he wasn't overcome with blind insanity.  
  
And then he considered his plans, and Sirius' face loomed large in his mind, and he thought; perhaps I just have gone insane, after all.  
  
It'd explain a hell of a lot.  
  
He'd be doing Sirius a favour, surely. His Godfather was unable to see past the end of his own nose. As he had once heard Draco say; 'the old man has his head rammed so far up his arse it's a bloody miracle he hasn't turned himself inside out.' Well, if Sirius was unable to choose between him and Gwyneth, then he, Harry, would choose for him. And Gwyneth would be the one to make him happy. Harry, whilst useful around the house, couldn't make his Godfather happy in every respect. Yeah, Sirius would be better off, surely. He'd be able to live the life he should have been granted ... if his own parents hadn't been so bloody selfish to take it away from him ...  
  
The moor was wet and boggy, and Harry could feel the hem of his robes dragging in the mud, and water seeping through the seems of his patent leather school shoes. But he no longer cared. A niggling little voice at the back of his mind was telling him that it was blind insanity, coming out here with no food in thin work robes, with no protection against the elements. Harry mentally told himself to shut up.  
  
They could have that little cottage all to themselves. More space for the bouncy babies they would no doubt be having in droves. A happy little family. Without Harry to clutter up their lives. He'd cluttered up enough lives as it was. He even, at that moment, felt a pang of sympathy for the Dursleys, forced to take in a child they did not want and barely knew. How he must have turned their orderly little lives upside down. Well, they'd at least be glad to know he'd run away.  
  
What about Ron and Hermione? Harry tried very hard to shrug the mental picture of his friends out of his head, tried desperately to think of a good reason why they would be better off without him. Ron ... Ron could shine for what he really was. He had been right, the previous year, about always being in the shadows, always playing second fiddle, like a faithful bloodhound. Of course, Harry thought ... I can see that now. Well, now was his chance to give Ron a little something back after having taken so much.  
  
And Hermione. He stumbled as he thought, but maintained his balance, and continued walking eastwards across the moor, a solitary figure, barely visible in the gathering darkness of an autumn night. Hermione, Hermione.  
  
Harry stopped, paused, as he tried to think of a single reason for Hermione to be glad of his running away. A month or so ago, that would have been a very easy question to answer; she could merely have run off with Draco Malfoy, and never have to bother with him again. Now, he was not so sure.  
  
Don't be silly, his mind told him. You'd be doing them all a favour. Everyone who lied, who pointed or taunted. You'll show them, Harry.  
  
He looked around him. He had covered a fair distance, and aside from the fact that he was very high up, on a very bleak and very windswept piece of moor land, had very little conception of where he was. He turned back. The castle was still visible, though very distant now. It dawned on Harry how very badly he knew the area he preferred to call his home. After all, save a few visits to Hogsmeade, and that one trip up to visit Sirius and Buckbeak in their cave, when had he actually been off school property? His life seemed to revolve around these three locations; Privet Drive, Diagon Alley, Hogwarts. Everywhere else might as well have been a mere dot on the map, for all Harry knew. It was like living life as a character in a book. Well, he thought. This is the last chapter. Finished, done.  
  
No sequel.  
  
As he watched the castle from afar, he half-expected to see people toiling down the hill in his direction, searching from him. And in one desperate moment he realised that probably, he didn't really want to run at all.  
  
And then it dawned on Harry that because there were no people searching for him, that nobody did care.  
  
He turned, and stepped forwards, and the next thing he knew, the ground seemed to have disappeared, and he was falling, and he hit the ground with a force so strong that something snapped loudly, a bolt of searing pain raced through his body, everything went black, and his whole life didn't flash before his eyes.  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth was worried. Despite the proposal, and despite the knowledge that she ... she, Gwyneth Jones, once voted 'Employee Least Likely To Get Her Leg Over At The Christmas Party' back at the IAMR in Llandudno, was getting married, and despite the very firm and enjoyable knowledge that Sirius was, indeed, dead sexy, she couldn't help feeling, as she sat at her desk with a cup of tea, a chocolate digestive and a pile of Fifth Year essays to mark, that the relationship lacked something.  
  
Something very fundamental.  
  
She picked up the first essay, and read the name at the top. Mildly gratified to discover it was Harry's she read on, paying scant regard to his impossibly neat copperplate hand.  
  
Something missing, something missing.  
  
Well, she thought. The relationship just ... isn't quite up to the hot and horny stage yet. Maybe we got over hot and horny back in the 1980s ... nauseating pet names and chewing each other's ears off in crowded pubs where anyone and everyone could see. Hideous, quite frankly. And really, she was thankful that that was behind her. But was she really? With a pang of longing, she thought of Sirius as he had been, with hair like a cross between Bob Geldof and Shaft, and faded Levis, shrunk to fit. Yummy. She seemed to remember a gold medallion and chest hair that could have suffocated Liverpool, though maybe she'd just been watching too many Starsky and Hutch re-runs on Muggle TV.  
  
Yes, Sirius as he had been, all motorbikes and leather trousers, the kind of guy who thought that 'Charlie' was a romantic name for a perfume. The kind of guy who bought novelty records, and told fart jokes without wincing, and thought Zen Buddhism was right on ... and didn't like Margaret Thatcher one little bit.  
  
So why can't he be like that now?  
  
Unconsciously, she reached the end of Harry's essay without even reading it, without even writing any comments on it. She turned the paper over, and on account of not being bothered to go through it again, gave him a B, and wrote 'nice effort' in chunky red marker pen. She toyed with the idea of using one of her smiley face stickers, but didn't.  
  
Then she picked up the next paper. She was just putting all thoughts of Sirius in leather from her mind, when the door opened, and the last person she needed to see came through it.  
  
"Hello, Sirius."  
  
Sirius was wearing another one of his hideous jumpers. The things seemed to breed in his wardrobe. She was seriously considering hunting down his source and using 'Avada Kedavra' on them ... as far as she was aware the Ministry didn't have a Fashion Police department.  
  
"Remus just arrived. They're putting him in one of the guest bedrooms now."  
  
"Oh, that's nice," said Gwyneth. "Is he coming with us to dinner on Saturday?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "And he's taking me shopping. He has a debonair werewolf's idea of what makes a good set of dress robes. I'll look suave and dashing for the wedding now."  
  
"I'll have to go and speak to him," said Gwyneth. "Haven't seen him in so long ..." she trailed off, became aware that Sirius was looking at her as though he had something more important to say than that.  
  
"Was there anything else?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Um. Seen Harry?"  
  
She looked up, glanced again at his essay. "Not recently, why?"  
  
"He was meant to turn up for a group therapy session," explained Sirius. "Sinead set it up - she wanted to help Harry and Draco work through some of their anger towards each other, and their parents, and life in general."  
  
"A kind of therapeutic china smashing session?" asked Gwyneth. "Damn ... I was meant to be there too, wasn't I? Sorry, I just got carried away with all my marking," and daydreaming about you, sex god.  
  
Sirius nodded. "But don't worry," he said. "It's broken down in disarray. Only me, Ron, Hermione and Draco turned up, and I think Sinead might have had a nervous breakdown. She kept going on about someone called Keith, and then she said 'the Time of Madness is upon us,' or something."  
  
"And Harry didn't turn up either?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "I spoke to Harry earlier," he said. "He said he thought it sounded like a good idea. I thought that meant he was going to turn up, but evidently something more important grabbed his attention. I was just wondering if ..."  
  
Gwyneth shook her head. "I'm awfully sorry, darling," she said. "I've seen not hide nor hair of him since Potions this morning. He was awfully sullen in the lesson ... kept flicking 'v' signs at me under the table."  
  
Sirius looked shocked. "I'll have words with him ..."  
  
"That'll only make it worse," said Gwyneth. "Whenever we have words with him, he goes and half drowns himself. He's spending so much time in the Hospital Wing they're thinking of dedicating a park bench to him."  
  
Sirius gave her a 'that was uncalled for,' look. "I wouldn't really be worried," he said. "It's just, I spoke to him earlier in the day. And I think I upset him. Actually, I know I upset him."  
  
Gwyneth put the top back on her pen; clearly no more marking was going to be done here for a while. "Carry on."  
  
"After you spoke with me this morning, I tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down. And I'm horribly afraid I've made things worse."  
  
"Well, what happened?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
Sirius looked awkward. "Well, he walked out on me. He told me where I could put my opinions. He told me where I could put my marriage ... hell, he told me to perform the anatomically impossible. We both said some horrible things to one another."  
  
"He's probably just locked himself in his dormitory," said Gwyneth. "Did you try there?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "Perhaps I should go have a look," he suggested.  
  
Gwyneth nodded. "Rampant sex later?" she asked, as he turned to head for the door.  
  
"I'll be waiting for you," said Sirius, flashing her a grin.  
  
"Without the jumper?"  
  
Sirius nodded.  
  
"Very well. See you later."  
  
He closed the door softly, and a moment later she heard the sound of his footfall receding down the passage outside. Absent-mindedly, she picked up Harry's essay, and read the last paragraph.  
  
Harry had not written a Potions essay.  
  
"Oh bugger," she said.  
  
**************  
  
Ron and Hermione were sitting together up in the Gryffindor Common Room when Sirius and Gwyneth came tearing in through the Portrait Hole. It being very rare for teachers to venture into the House Common Rooms, every single head in the place swivelled round to look at the both of them, and Fred and George, who had been working on something that they would let nobody else see over at a secluded table, disappeared upstairs.  
  
Sirius sought out the pair, and he and Gwyneth came over.  
  
"Ron, Hermione. We were wondering if we ... er, collectively that is," said Sirius.  
  
"... could have a word," Gwyneth finished his sentence for him.  
  
"Have a seat," said Hermione. Ron gave Gwyneth a frosty look. He had still not forgiven her for many things, including the loss of Harry's sterling silver stirring rod earlier in the day. Gwyneth pretended to ignore him.  
  
"Is this about what I think it might be about?" asked Ron, his eyes darting from Sirius to Gwyneth, and then back again. Sirius nodded.  
  
"Probably," said Sirius, he sat down, and there was a loud yowling noise as the cushion on his armchair turned out to be Crookshanks, who wriggled free and fled across the Common Room, hissing. For once, Hermione did not follow her pet.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "I've been worried about him ever since he stormed off at lunchtime ..."  
  
"He stormed off?" asked Hermione. "Where to?"  
  
"We were, well," began Sirius, "hoping that you would have some kind of an idea about that. Clearly you were as in the dark as we were."  
  
Hermione nodded. "You mean he's run away or something?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "We think he might have done," he said. "We were wondering if he'd been saying anything to you? Anything at all ..."  
  
"We know he's been unhappy," Gwyneth cut in. She handed Hermione Harry's Potions essay. Hermione unfolded it diligently.  
  
"At the back," Sirius prompted.  
  
Hermione scanned the back page of the essay. Underneath his conclusion (shrinking solutions definitely do have a place in modern society) Harry had added an extra paragraph.  
  
"By the time you read this," Hermione read, "I will probably be long gone. I don't suppose you ever realised how much you've ruined my life. Take it from me - you have, you've made it a complete misery ... he's spelt misery wrong ... and now you're marrying Sirius. You just can't keep your nose out, can you?" Gwyneth had turned a bright shade of red. "Don't bother looking for me. I don't want to be found. I just want the satisfaction ... oh, he's misspelled satisfaction too ... of knowing that you know it's your fault. Die soon," the last word was 'bitch' but she spared Gwyneth's feelings, and didn't read it in front of Ron, who probably would have agreed.  
  
"Where's he gone then?" asked Ron. "We thought he just chickened out of that therapy session."  
  
"That's just it," said Sirius. "We think it might be a suicide note."  
  
"Harry's not that warped," began Hermione. Sirius and Ron both gave her a look.  
  
"Well, actually," began Ron. "He was saying he wanted to die when I got him down off the top of the Astronomy Tower. And there've been those awful dreams. Really bad ones too," he paused. "Not that I think Harry's stupid enough to top himself."  
  
"We just want your help," said Sirius impassively. "We want you to try and help us by helping Harry. Now, I'm sure this is just a plea for help. He wants to be found if I know my own Godson ..."  
  
"That's just it," Hermione cut in. "How long have you actually known Harry?"  
  
"All his life, why?" said Sirius.  
  
Hermione merely shook her head at him. "Ah, no," she said. "That's where you're wrong. Harry is fifteen years, three months and two days old. Out of all that time, how much of it would you say you have spent in his company?"  
  
Sirius suddenly looked very crestfallen. "Not long," he admitted, after a very pregnant pause.  
  
"Couple of months, if that," said Hermione. "You hardly know him at all. Now, we're his friends. He talks to us ... we know him better than either of you."  
  
Sirius and Gwyneth were both looking at her like small children.  
  
"Harry doesn't fool people like this," said Hermione. "He is without the shadow of a doubt, the most honest, loyal and good person I've ever known. This is below him. I'd say it was a trick ..."  
  
Gwyneth looked very puzzled. "But Hermione, surely," she began.  
  
"Oh, this is his handwriting," said Hermione. "There's no doubt Harry wrote this note, or whatever it's meant to be. But he's not in his right mind now, is he? Ever heard of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"  
  
Ron shook his head. Sirius looked up. "Isn't that a Muggle thing?" he asked.  
  
Hermione nodded. "Yeah," she said. "But it's what Harry has. I'm sure of it."  
  
"What is it?" asked Ron.  
  
"A psychiatric thing," said Hermione. "Where someone reacts badly to a traumatic and stressful situation. Well, the last couple of months have been nothing if not traumatic and stressful," she finished.  
  
Sirius, Gwyneth and Ron exchanged haunted looks.  
  
"That's why I think this note is genuine," said Hermione, in a soft voice. "He doesn't want to be found. And I think it may be a matter of time before he does something very stupid indeed, if he hasn't," her words trailed off into the ether. "If he hasn't already ..."  
  
Sirius swore loudly, causing the other Gryffindors present to look up in alarm. He looked up at the ceiling.  
  
"Sometimes, Prongs, I think you just like to sit up there and have a good laugh at me, don't you? I bet it's just your idea of a joke; landing me with a goddamn psycho kid! Dead bastard!"  
  
**************  
  
Hagrid was sitting at the rough wooden table in his hut, an oil lamp burning, a half eaten loaf of bread with a knife stuck upright in it lay between him and the other occupant of the room, who was twiddling his thumbs.  
  
"I'm sure he'll be back in a minute," said the other man, regarding Hagrid with something approaching concern. "Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
Hagrid looked at Remus Lupin. "I'll be fine," he sniffed. Upon finding out about Harry's latest crisis, he had got through a grand total of fifty handkerchiefs, and cried enough to drown Middlesex. And there was not a damn thing Remus could think of to do to stop him. Hagrid, for all his brute strength, had always been the first one to be overcome by sentimentality and raw emotion. He remembered with something approaching fondness how the vicar in Godric's Hollow had been forced to hold up James and Lily's wedding service because Hagrid had been making so much noise.  
  
This, however, this was something much more serious.  
  
The two men sat in silence for a few moments longer, and then, finally, heard the sound of footsteps in the wet mud outside, and the sounds of two men talking very loudly and quite angrily to one another.  
  
Remus got up, and went to open the door. It was Sirius and another man, this one wrapped in a large woollen travelling cloak with a hood.  
  
"What's he doing here?" asked the other man, in tones that could have cut through diamond. Remus realised instantly who the other man was.  
  
"He was all I could find," sighed Sirius, addressing this remark to Remus and Hagrid, who had got up from the table and was standing behind him in the doorway.  
  
"Watch your tongue, Black, or you might find I don't help you at all," said the other man fiercely. "Honestly, I only come in to school to check if I've had any letters, and I get shanghaied into precious Potter's latest crisis."  
  
"Do be quiet, Snape," said Sirius.  
  
Snape lowered the hood of his cloak. "Well, honestly," he said. "You might have asked Professor Flitwick, or somebody of that ilk."  
  
"Professor Flitwick is attending salsa dance classes at the Three Broomsticks," said Sirius. "It would not be fair to interrupt him."  
  
"And I should be sitting at home, partaking of a glass of Madeira and a slice of Battenburg with Mrs. Snape whilst listening to 'A Book At Bedtime' on the wireless," said Snape.  
  
"There's a Mrs. Snape now?" asked Sirius, smiling. "Who's the unlucky woman? Moaning Myrtle?"  
  
"Hello, Lupin," said Snape, in tones suggesting that he was not pleased to see any of them. "Hagrid."  
  
"Evening, Professor," said Hagrid, stiffly and formally.  
  
"Let it be known I am here out of no personal interest whatsoever," said Snape. "I am here only to fulfil my duty as a man in loco parentis should do. There is a missing child, and I consider it my ..."  
  
"What does loco parentis actually mean?" asked Remus, looking at Sirius.  
  
"I think he's trying to say his mum and dad have gone mad in Spanish," said Sirius, clapping Snape on the shoulder. "Now, come on, let's put our heads together. We've got a kid out on the moors somewhere. And we have to find him."  
  
"And the weather forecast calls for blizzards tonight," said Snape, in a tone of immense satisfaction.  
  
"Well that's good," said Sirius sarcastically. "We can have a snowball fight."  
  
Hagrid was looking angrier and angrier at every passing snipe.  
  
"How you three can stand there making out like schoolboys when little Harry's lost somewhere, and might even be dead!" he exclaimed. "You properly ought to be ashamed of yourselves!"  
  
The other three men stopped, and looked at him.  
  
"You're right, of course," said Remus. "Okay, Sirius. Battle plan?"  
  
Sirius nodded. He delved into the pocket of his overcoat, and pulled out a sheepskin Quidditch glove.  
  
"This belongs to Harry," he said.  
  
"Bravo," said Snape, sarcastically. "You do realise he's probably just hiding in the castle somewhere? He'll come out as soon as he gets hungry."  
  
"I will feed you to my hippogriff if you aren't careful," said Sirius darkly. "We did, of course, check the Marauders Map for any sign of him in the castle, and it came up blank. He is not on school property."  
  
"How did you find the Map?" asked Remus and Snape at the same time.  
  
Sirius gave them both an extremely annoyed look. "That is not important," he said. "Now, Hagrid, we'll need Fang to get the scent."  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth finished pacing the floor of Dumbledore's study, sat down, and then stood up again, and continued pacing for a further five minutes. The other occupant of the room watched her go.  
  
After ten minutes had passed, Dumbledore, who was sitting behind his desk feeding Fawkes the phoenix sunflower seeds out of the palm of his hand, looked up and said. "For heaven's sake, Gwyneth. You'll wear out my carpet."  
  
Gwyneth stopped, and walked over to the window. "Sorry, headmaster," she said softly. "I just can't keep still. I'm that worried."  
  
Dumbledore regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. "Of course," he said. "I do understand."  
  
Professor McGonagall checked her watch. It was coming up to eight o'clock. The search party had been gone nearly a full hour.  
  
Gwyneth turned away from the window, and came back over to sit down. "It is my fault. Harry deserves so much better than what we can give him. We'd have been good Godparents, but lousy parents."  
  
"Don't say that," said Dumbledore sternly. "There is no way of knowing how things might have turned out. Sinead was telling me about her Trousers of Time earlier."  
  
Professor McGonagall looked up, alarmed. "I'm sorry, Albus? I did hear you correctly?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "I can assure you that you did, Minerva. The Trousers of Time ... a little theory to which many people happen to subscribe. However, here it remains irrelevant."  
  
Gwyneth took her seat again. "You know, I'm seriously considering breaking off the engagement."  
  
Professor McGonagall shifted her weight uncomfortably.  
  
"It just seems so pointless," Gwyneth went on. "I mean, look, Harry's going to be set against us whatever happens. It kind of makes me wish I'd never agreed to marry Sirius in the first place. How easier it would have been for both of us."  
  
Dumbledore regarded her sadly. "I'm truly sorry you feel that way," he said. "Believe me, I have no qualms in saying that I believe you are perfect for Sirius. You balance him out, you bring him down if he gets too hyperactive, and he brings you up if the opposite happens. To be able to find someone with whom you click so instantaneously ... that's a rare thing, Gwyneth. Both you and Sirius are extremely fortunate. And not just for that reason ..."  
  
Gwyneth looked up. "What's the other reason, then?"  
  
"You are blessed," said Dumbledore simply. "Not only do you have each other, but you have Harry, and he's one of the most beautiful, affectionate, good natured, bright young things you could ever hope to be acquainted with."  
  
Gwyneth bit her lip sullenly.  
  
"You have to appreciate Harry," said Dumbledore. "Appreciate him for what he is. I believe he makes you both complete."  
  
Gwyneth nodded. "I don't know, Albus. When somebody hates you that much. There's a limit to how much you are prepared to give."  
  
"Harry doesn't hate you," said Dumbledore. "You just got off to a tricky start. That's fixable. There's nothing there a sensible chat and plenty of give and take can't solve."  
  
"Harry's all take and no give," said Gwyneth, running a hand swiftly through her blonde hair. Dumbledore almost looked shocked.  
  
"I agree he is most discriminatory with his affections," he said. "But there is a reason for that. Harry has hardly been the victim of progressive parenting. Truth to tell, he has had a miserable childhood, and I for one regret the incidents that led me to believe a life amongst Muggle relatives would be better for him. He's not had a whole lot of love, as Led Zeppelin once sang."  
  
Gwyneth smiled.  
  
"And equally, he does not know how to love indiscriminately," said Dumbledore. "That's no bad thing in itself, but it does mean that it takes time to get to know him."  
  
"So how come Sirius and Harry have such an excellent relationship, straight off?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
Dumbledore's mouth curled upwards into a slight smile. "Sirius is the only link Harry has to his past. His real past, his heritage. They are also extraordinarily alike. What did Sirius give him at birth?"  
  
Gwyneth thought back to that sultry September day ... Harry's Naming Day, when they had crowded into the tiny church at Godric's Hollow. The closest friends of the family had touched him lightly on the forehead with their wands, and bestowed their gifts upon the baby.  
  
"Personality, or charisma, I think," said Gwyneth. She had forgotten all about that.  
  
"A wise choice," said Dumbledore. "And of course, you are quite right. There's a bit of Sirius in Harry. He's a complex composite of all that is best about the people who loved him. That's why you need to be the one to love him. For that love to be truly expressed. It may seem unfair, but it is you who must do the work here. And I can't promise it will be easy, but when a boy such as Harry bestows his trust and affection upon you, that is a wonderful feeling."  
  
Gwyneth sighed. Dumbledore was, of course, quite right.  
  
**************  
  
The lantern borne by Hagrid swinging gently from side to side before them, the party cut a treacherous path along the ridge-way. The Hog's Back was a large ridge, almost sheer on one side, that ran in an east west direction for about three miles not far from the school, and completely coincidentally marked the border between England and Scotland. It was the remains of an ancient glacial valley, and if you did not know it was there, it would be very easy to fall off it. Many had done in the past. For this reason the four men chose their footsteps very carefully.  
  
"How far is it around?" asked Remus, having to shout over the rising wind. "Is it even worth trying to go down to see the bottom?"  
  
"Put it this way!" roared Sirius. "We'd be looking for a dead body if we did!"  
  
Remus shuddered inwardly. "We'd better not then!" he shouted. "We should keep looking ... we need to keep looking."  
  
After they had gone a few hundred more yards, Hagrid brought them up short before a giant, monolithic black rock that was poking up from the ground. It was an erratic, left over from the days when ice covered northern Britain, although legend said that it had been put there by a local wizard as a marker so he could land his broomstick safely. It said something about the nature of reality in an area of such high magical concentration that both these stories were in fact, true.  
  
"Why have we stopped?" asked Snape impatiently.  
  
Hagrid produced from inside his haversack a greasy paper package. "Rations!" he said. None of the others had thought to bring any food, and so they were all suddenly extremely hungry indeed. They moved around into the lee of the erratic, and Sirius conjured up a tarpaulin groundsheet to keep them from getting too wet. They sat down gratefully. They had not come far from Hogwarts, but the trek was uphill, and arduous after dark, even with the aid of Hagrid's enormous storm lantern, and the combined effect of the wandlight. They were all tired.  
  
Hagrid's rations turned out to be four rounds each of egg mayonnaise sandwiches. Snape regarded his with suspicion, but Sirius and Remus ate hungrily and gratefully. Hagrid fed Fang with dog biscuits, whilst taking great swigs from a silver hip flask.  
  
The wind was coming in great gusts now, and clouds were being blown rapidly across the pitch black sky. There were not even any stars to be seen on high.  
  
"What are our chances, realistically?" asked Remus, finishing off his sandwiches.  
  
Snape looked up. "Well, people have been known to survive on the moors for days at a time," he said. "We don't even know that Harry has come this way, except for the vague leadings of that dog," he gestured to Fang, whose nose they had been following.  
  
"But not in the middle of a storm like this," said Remus darkly.  
  
Snape nodded. "I very much doubt Potter was carrying a tent and rations," he said. "In a storm, his chances of survival would be very dramatically cut. These moors are very exposed. He could die within a few hours. If it snows, then he will freeze to death."  
  
Sirius looked pale by the wandlight. "Is there no hope?" he asked.  
  
Snape shrugged. "Personally, I don't believe that walking around these moors and by implication endangering our own lives is going to help the situation. The trouble is, based on the scant information you and Lupin have deemed fit to enlighten me with, I cannot tell whether Potter has merely run away, or has tried to kill himself."  
  
"The note was unclear on that point," said Sirius. "It could have been taken either way."  
  
"Nevertheless," said Snape, "you fear the worst?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "You haven't been at school over the past few weeks. He's a changed boy. He's not right."  
  
"So likely, Potter is merely crying for help," said Snape. "I suspected as much. Most suicides are cries for help, according to statistics. That is why so few are successful - people very rarely actually want to kill themselves. Of course, Potter may be the exception."  
  
"And will you stop calling him Potter?" snapped Sirius.  
  
Snape shrugged, and took a bite out of his sandwich. "You asked for my counsel, Black, and I gave it to you. If you don't like the way I speak, then there is a two hundred foot high ridge to our immediate left. Feel free to walk off the edge ... anytime is good."  
  
Sirius scowled at Snape.  
  
"If Potter is still alive, his best chance is to make it to an area where he might be seen by Muggle Mountain Rescue Teams," Snape went on. "The area immediately west of here is a Muggle National Park. There are plenty of hikers and farmers who would spot him if he wandered across their land. There is also," he added, a tone of sarcastic satisfaction creeping once more into his voice, "a firing range, belonging to the Ministry of Defence ..."  
  
"You seem well versed on Muggles, for a Slytherin," observed Remus.  
  
"I deem it fit to find out what I can about my environs," said Snape. "If such investigations include Muggles, then I do not complain," he finished the last of his sandwiches, and accepted a swig of Firewhisky from Hagrid's hip flask. "Besides, I actually happen to find Muggles interesting."  
  
"Very laudable," said Sirius, without actually meaning it.  
  
"So what do we do?" asked Remus. "Keep going, head on home? What?"  
  
"My immediate inclination would be to head for Hogwarts," said Snape. "I do not anticipate there is much we can do tonight. Maybe in daylight we could fly overhead, but I do not suspect Potter will survive that long. This wind is really picking up."  
  
"He could be in the lee of something," said Remus, trying his best to sound hopeful, even though he was increasingly agreeing with Snape. "He might have found shelter. He isn't a stupid kid."  
  
Snape looked up, he had been staring at his shoes. "Maybe," he said. "Of course, what Potter knows about all terrain survival techniques could be written on a grain of rice. I doubt very much he has the aptitude to construct himself a bivouac."  
  
There was a pregnant pause while Sirius and Remus wondered what a bivouac was, and decided not to ask Snape for fear of looking too stupid.  
  
"Of course," Snape went on. "If we were Muggles we could have flights of helicopters scouring the land, with powerful searchlights. Unfortunately, the last time someone tried to fly a Muggle machine around here, the residual local magic turned a twenty million pound Tornado fighter jet into a sperm whale and a small vase of petunias."  
  
"I heard about that," said Remus. "They say the whale met a very sticky end."  
  
"Falling to earth from four thousand feet does that to you," said Sirius glumly, tracing his name in the air with his wand. Remus noticed that he misspelled Black. The characters hung in the frosty air, before fading into nothing. Sirius placed his wand down on the ground and sighed.  
  
**************  
  
Harry opened one eye cautiously. He appeared to be lying on a patch of very soft, mossy grass. Somewhere, wind was blowing very loudly, but wherever it was that he was, he seemed to be relatively sheltered from it, which was an immediate relief, for it certainly sounded as if a fierce storm was brewing.  
  
He could feel a strange pressure on his chest. Carefully, for his body was aching all over, he propped himself up on his elbows, and reached out with his hand. He touched something small and furry, yelled in horror, and recoiled.  
  
There was a creature sitting on his stomach, sniffling at him.  
  
He tugged his wand free of his robes, and whispered, "Lumos."  
  
Instantly, the small hollow he had landed in was filled with the strange, blue wandlight. And Harry saw that the creature sitting on his stomach was a small, spherical creature, covered in fur the colour of custard.  
  
"A puffskein," he breathed. He had never actually seen one in the flesh before. They were too tame for Hagrid to bother bringing to Care of Magical Creatures classes, although Ron claimed to have once had one for a pet, and it had met a very sticky end indeed. At least it meant he wasn't in any danger. Puffskeins were very tame creatures.  
  
The one sitting on his stomach regarded the boy with interest. Occasionally a small pink tongue would flick out, and it would slurp noisily, as if hungry.  
  
It dawned on Harry that he was utterly exhausted, very hungry, very, very thirsty, and that every bone in his body seemed to be crying out in protest. He made as if to sit up, and the puffskein obligingly hopped off its perch to afford him better mobility, though it remained crouched at his side, making little slurping noises.  
  
Now Harry could see just how dire his predicament was. His leg was broken, twisted backwards at a hideous, repulsive angle. Fighting the sudden urge to vomit, he leaned forwards, and very gingerly rolled up his trouser leg. The ankle was bruised and battered. Harry tried to move it, but was met with only a terrifying numbness.  
  
And this time, he remembered exactly what he had been planning to do.  
  
"Well, that didn't work," he said out loud. The puffskein hopped up and down and gibbered at him. Harry, feeling utterly exhausted, flopped down onto his back, resting his head on what appeared to be a particularly thick patch of moss. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the sound of water dripping, and the air seemed moist, as if it was just on the verge of raining. There was a pleasant, earthy smell, clean air and heather mingling in the freezing night air. Harry's breath condensed before his very eyes.  
  
He tried a very weak, "Hello!" and waved his wand about a bit. The puffskein, alarmed, jumped backwards.  
  
"Hello!"  
  
**************  
  
"What's the time now?" asked Sirius, hugging himself to keep warm. Even though he was clad in very thick, fur lined boots, an enormous fluffy overcoat, and one of those funny Russian hats with the earflaps, the biting wind was still getting to him.  
  
"Quarter past eleven!" yelled Remus.  
  
"How far have we gone?"  
  
"Not far!" came the reply. The promised snow was falling quite rapidly now, cascading from the sky. Overhead the clouds raced, blown along by the fearsome wind that was rapidly becoming a fully fledged gale. And every now and then, a distant rumbling echoed through the night, and lightning forked across the sky. Sirius had never seen lightning in a snowstorm before, and the effect was very scary indeed.  
  
Only Snape looked completely unperturbed. With renewed energy and vigour, he was walking ahead of the other men, clasping Fang's lead in his right hand, whilst Fang sniffed cautiously at the ground.  
  
"This is getting silly!" said Sirius. They had been toiling uphill, following the line of the Hog's Back for hours now, and they had still found no way down, and still there was no sign of Harry. "We should have put a Locator Charm on him!"  
  
"You had no way of knowing he was going to do something so bloody stupid!" said Snape fiercely. "You mustn't blame yourself, Black. If Potter's lost his marbles, there's nothing any of us could have done. I always said the boy was a liability."  
  
"Watch it, short-arse!" snapped Sirius.  
  
Remus was looking around anxiously. He appeared agitated about something.  
  
"Anyway, this is the kind of night when witches are abroad," said Snape.  
  
"Hope they went somewhere nice and warm," said Sirius sarcastically. "Honestly, how archaic does this man get?"  
  
"I can range from anything between five and five hundred arcs on the scale," said Snape, "and right now, you are making me very angry indeed, Black. So if you value your ability to reproduce, I suggest you shut up."  
  
"I suggest you shut up!" Sirius repeated in a low, mocking whisper at Snape's back. Snape did not turn around. "Sad little wanker. No wonder I hated him at school."  
  
"You went beyond hate. It was outright loathing," said Snape, who had heard his previous remark.  
  
"But it was so much fun ..."  
  
"Itching powder, Black," said Snape darkly. "I never ever forgave you for that. Even I didn't think you would stoop so low."  
  
Sirius tried to look innocent. Snape whirled around to face him, levelling his glowing wand at the other man. "Itching powder in my cornflakes," he hissed. "Do you have any idea how impossible it is to scratch the lining of your stomach without eviscerating yourself?"  
  
"No," said Sirius flatly.  
  
"Then rest assured, Black, that I hate you more. The words have not been coined that could describe the depth of my loathing for every sinew of your body. I hate you so much I would gladly feed you to any number of nasty creatures with sharp, pointy teeth. I tell you now that the day they put you in Azkaban was the happiest day of my life. I hate you with a burning passion that will echo down through the ages and be recorded by scribes in the far distant future as they struggle to prove that I hate you more than anything, anybody, I have ever encountered."  
  
"Snape's having issues," said Sirius, in a mocking tone of voice.  
  
"I am having issues with you," said Snape. "Because I loathe you."  
  
"I would never have guessed. Well, Severus," said Sirius, enunciating every syllable of the word as though he was pronouncing the name of a particularly vile and unpleasant bacteria, "let me state for the record that from the moment I first set eyes upon you, when you put the Sorting Hat on, and I saw the expression on your face from where I was sitting, I knew that there, there is a worthless, scheming, conniving little turd with all the tact and delicacy of an especially violent kick to the groin!"  
  
Snape did not look offended. Instead, he looked satisfied. Then, after a few brief seconds during which it snowed a bit more, he said. "I'm glad you got that off your chest. Now that we have established just how much we hate each other, perhaps we can concentrate on the matter in hand."  
  
He turned around, and began to walk away from them. Sirius and Remus scurried to catch up.  
  
**************  
  
Meanwhile, having run out of constructive things to do, owing mainly to the fact that more of his bones seemed to be broken, or contorted in various interesting ways than he had initially suspected, Harry was taking stock of his situation.  
  
The first thought that sprang to mind was that he was going to die. And the second was that even though a few hours before he had wanted to die, indeed, he had had the intention of killing himself, now he did not, and the third, by implication was that since he was going to die anyway, he was rather buggered. This did not, in Harry's estimation, amount to an especially constructive appraisal of the situation, but then there you go.  
  
Oh bugger, he thought.  
  
Even the puffskein had gone away somewhere. He could hear it rooting around in a nearby clump of gorse, searching for little winter bugs to feast upon, having exhausted all Harry's food supplies whilst he was unconscious.  
  
And on top of it all, it looks like I'm going to become a snow boy before very much longer. Fluffy white flakes that in more auspicious circumstances would have delighted him were cascading from the sky, and every so often thunder roared. It was the kind of night that belonged to the darkness, when humans should properly tuck themselves away and wait to reclaim their world by day. And here he was, stuck in the middle of it, with a broken everything.  
  
A terrifying numbness, which Harry was not altogether sure was down to the cold, or to more serious internal damage to his body, seemed to be creeping slowly up his legs. At least, he thought, it dulled the pain a bit. If he was going to die, he would rather not die in extreme pain.  
  
After a while, sheer tiredness and exhaustion overcame him, and his eyes closed, and his body stopped shivering as hypothermia finally set in, and he began to drift in and out of consciousness, until he was not sure how much time had passed; he estimated several hours, or whether he was sleeping, wakeful, dreaming or hallucinating. Time and time again he heard voices calling his name, drifting across the moors, saw people walking along in the middle distance, following their lighted wands, and he tried to call out to them, but they did not reply, and they did not heed his presence, and he collapsed again onto his mossy bed, and drifted again into sleep ... or had he woken up again? For now he was still lying in the same place, and the people were drawing closer to him, and he could see that there were three of them ... three men, wearing black cloaks that dragged in the snow as they came.  
  
The first man crouched down next to Harry, and began to gently caress his hair, speaking softly.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
The man shook his head, and took down his hood. Harry could not see his face very well, but the wand light was reflected in a pair of round glasses not unlike his own.  
  
"I have something very important to tell you, Harry," said the man. He leant in closer over Harry, and brushed a lock of hair out of his green eyes, and Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a lightning bolt scar on the man's forehead.  
  
"Are you me?" asked Harry, his voice croaky. "Am I awake, or is this a dream?"  
  
"Neither," said Harry, smiling. "Your eyebrows have frozen, by the way."  
  
"I can't help that," said Harry. "Why don't I hurt anymore?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "This is important," he began. "There is someone nearby who you must not trust one little bit. You have a mortal enemy ..."  
  
"Everyone knows that."  
  
"A different one," said Harry, looking at him tenderly. "There is an impostor. Someone is not who he seems."  
  
"That's a very cryptic warning," said Harry.  
  
"Cryptic warnings are all you get in dream states," said Harry. "It's just one of those things, I suppose. I could tell you to beware the Ides of March, if you want."  
  
"Should I? What is the Ides of March?" asked Harry.  
  
"You probably ought to beware of it," said Harry.  
  
Harry gingerly stretched out a hand. He was not altogether surprised to discover that his hand went right through his other self.  
  
"What are you?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "One of those phenomena, I expect. Ron wants a word ..."  
  
Harry faded into the distance, and the other men were approaching, taking down their hoods. Harry found himself staring into the faces of Ron and Draco, but both of them were older ... not by much, only a few years or so. It was unnerving quite how much grown-up Ron looked like Percy.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't think that, Harry," said Ron.  
  
"You can read my mind?"  
  
"I am your mind," said Ron.  
  
"How come Harry didn't tell me that?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron mimed drinking. "He's had a bit too much," he said. "Look. There're some people nearby who can help you. They're nearby, but you're going to need to stay awake, and shout for all you're worth, otherwise they'll pass by ..."  
  
"Who are they?"  
  
"Some kind of phenomenon, I'll be bound," said Ron. "You know, there is unusually high residual magic here. You weren't around for the bit in Naxcivan when Lucius Malfoy revealed his evil plans, but there's some sort of very magic thing near here, some kind of big rock, and something else called a diagonal ley that connects you to something else that's very important but whose name I can't tell you right now. Mainly because I don't actually know what it is. But in case you were wondering, that's what's causing this. That and something your Grandfather once did."  
  
"That?"  
  
"That and you're freezing to death, and this is really a hallucination, at the end of the day," said Ron kindly. "But I shouldn't really tell you that. Oh, and take note of what Harry told you. He knows where he's coming from. He's a big shot where I come from."  
  
"Where's that?"  
  
"England, I think," said Ron, grinning mischievously.  
  
Ron waved his wand in the air, and promptly vanished. Harry's eyes drifted over to Draco.  
  
Draco merely grinned at him.  
  
"Watch my face very closely, Potter," he said, winking.  
  
Harry opened his eyes, and Draco instantly vanished. A rush of coldness sweeping over his body told him that in all likelihood he was probably awake again. He stared up at the sky, across which clouds were racing at full pelt.  
  
There was light moving, hundreds of feet above him! He could see it!  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Hey what?" asked Draco, looking affronted. "I told you to watch my face, damn it."  
  
"Piss off, Malfoy," said Harry bitterly. "I don't need these bloody hallucinations."  
  
"Who said this was a hallucination?" asked Draco. "Now watch my face."  
  
Harry fixed his own eyes on Draco's pale grey ones, and watched. Draco's lips seemed to be getting thinner. The skin across his face was growing tighter, the eyes receding into their sockets, the cheekbones becoming higher and more defined, the sleek blond hair crumbling to the dust from whence it came.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "I'm not really Draco," he said. "I am your past, your present, and your future, Harry Potter."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Draco's pupils were becoming bloodshot, redder, and redder. The whole structure of his face seemed to be changing ... the eyes narrowed to slits, the nose altered beyond recognition.  
  
But was it? As Harry witnessed Draco's disturbing transformation, the most horrible feeling that he knew into who's face he was looking suddenly overcame him.  
  
"I think you thought you'd killed me," said Draco.  
  
"Killed you?" asked Harry.  
  
Draco flashed his new, red eyes at Harry, and then licked his lips, his tongue playing about his mouth like that of a snake, testing the air. When he next spoke, even his voice had changed, to that cold, high tone that Harry knew so well now.  
  
"You thought you'd defeated me. You thought I stepped out of the Circle, and that that was my end. Moreover, you have cost me my servant, Potter."  
  
"You're dead," breathed Harry.  
  
Voldemort shook his head. "No," he said. "I was never really alive. My battle with the Snake Lord Slytherin was brief, but he was the loser. He was returned to the depths of hell, where he belongs. I ... on the other hand. I still have unfinished business to attend to."  
  
"You're a dream," breathed Harry. "You can't hurt me. You can't hurt me. I'm imagining you. You can't do anything to me."  
  
"Oh, is that so?" asked Voldemort. He produced from within his cloak, a small knife, with a blade that sparkled silver in the wandlight, and appeared so thin, so sharp that it was almost transparent. "As yet I am still weak, Harry Potter. And you will not be dying by my hand now. But I stand by what I said in Naxcivan. There will come a day when you lose. Every time we have met so far, there has been one thing I have not considered, one aspect, or quality, call it what you will, of your mortal existence that I have failed to take into account. But there will come a day when your luck runs out. There will come a day when I am a step ahead of you, Harry. On that day, I will finish what I started, all those years ago."  
  
He leant in closer, and pressed the blade to Harry's neck. Harry felt a sharp pain, and hot blood flowing over the surface of his skin.  
  
"It would seem, Harry Potter, that I have achieved the impossible," said Voldemort.  
  
Harry put his hand to his neck. It came away crimson. He was definitely bleeding. His eyes travelled slowly upwards to meet Voldemort's.  
  
"And Dumbledore said it couldn't be done," he hissed. "Well, really."  
  
And with that, he vanished.  
  
**************  
  
Dawn was breaking over the moors as the party, tired and weary through lack of sleep, trudged stiffly along the line of the ridge, their footprints now marking their path in the pristine blanket of snow that covered the scene, turning that picture of stark beauty into a sparkling winter wonderland.  
  
The storm had moved off, and behind it had come clear, cold skies. Now the sun was beginning to creep up in the east, directly ahead of them, and tendrils of yellow light were cast across the vivid blue sky.  
  
It was bitterly cold.  
  
They stopped again to drink fresh coffee out of another of Hagrid's flasks. It was warm and most welcome, but more importantly it kept Sirius awake. Even though he knew that their chances of finding Harry alive were nigh on impossible, there was still the faintest hope in the back of his mind, the tiniest chink of light at the end of whatever horrendous tunnel it was they were all stuck in.  
  
Remus sighed, and sat down on a rock looking out over the glacial valley below. There was no sign of any form of human habitation, save for a few sheep grazing on the far hillside. After a couple of moments sitting there, observing the tableau spread out before him, he was joined by Sirius, who was feeling similarly contemplative.  
  
"This is all my fault, you know," he said, after a couple of minutes had passed during which neither man spoke.  
  
Remus looked at him. "It would be a cliché of the highest order," he said, "for me to start comforting you and telling you that there was nothing you could have done. That explains why I'm not going to."  
  
"You think it was my fault?" began Sirius, but Remus cut him off.  
  
"And nor did I actually say that," he said mysteriously. "I'd just rather not surrender to every crude Muggle cliché in the book just yet."  
  
Sirius plucked a blade of grass between his thumb and forefinger, and held it up to the light, watching it intensely, as if it might suddenly try to do something to him.  
  
"I think I understand," he said. He took another sip of Hagrid's coffee, which tasted more like something else entirely, and then passed the flask over to Remus, who accepted in gratefully and clasped it between his hands, eking warmth back into his frozen digits.  
  
Snape was on his feet, stomping around to keep warm, his arms wrapped tightly about himself, his vast woollen winter cloak seemingly no protection against the elements. His heavy boots were crunching on the frosty ground. As he watched him, Sirius had to smile at just how strange he looked without his normal, lank, greasy hair which had been shaved off for reasons nobody was entirely clear about, though bits of it were starting to grow back now.  
  
He walked over to the edge of the ridge, and peered over the edge, as if determined to spot something down there. Remus and Sirius both looked on. Snape seemed to be looking worried about something, his brow was furrowed and his eyes narrowed to mere slits.  
  
Finally he spoke, quietly. "Come and have a look at this."  
  
Sirius and Remus were both on their feet in an instant, and hurried over to peer over the edge with Snape.  
  
"What are we looking for?" asked Sirius. "Have you spotted Harry?"  
  
Snape pointed dramatically. "That looks like something down there," he said.  
  
Sirius did not reply to this; the reason being Snape was blatantly pointing at something that wasn't there. "I don't see a single thing," said Sirius coldly. "If you're having me on, Snape."  
  
"I'm serious," said Snape, sneering at both the other men. "Look, down there. I think I can see something."  
  
Sirius followed the line indicated by Snape's finger. There was a clump of bushes, gorse, by the looks of them, obscuring something from view.  
  
"There's something there," Sirius conceded. "But it's impossible to tell what it is. It could be anything."  
  
"It's black," said Snape in gritty tones. "What else could it be? A bin bag?"  
  
"We'll soon see," said Remus, withdrawing from within the folds of his cloak a pair of Muggle binoculars. He held them up to his eyes, and twisted the little dial on top.  
  
"What do you see?" asked Sirius.  
  
Remus handed him the binoculars. Sirius looked through them. There was clearly something very wrong with Remus' eyes, for he had to twist the dial even further before whatever, whoever the object was swam into focus. It was still impossible to tell.  
  
"Can these things zoom in at all?" asked Sirius.  
  
Remus shook his head. "They're Muggle," he said. "I did have some omnioculars once, but somebody broke them," he gave Sirius a meaningful look.  
  
"That was James," said Sirius blankly. "And anyway, you were asking for it. Chimera in the bushes, my arse. Anyway, we mended them for you."  
  
"Yes, with spellotape and superglue. And then you enchanted them so that they played The Carpenters Greatest Hits whenever I tried to use them," said Remus bitterly.  
  
"We can soon fix that anyway," said Sirius, ignoring his friend completely. He took his wand out, and tapped the binoculars, whispering a short incantation. "That's much better."  
  
He gave the dial another little twist, and now the object was in very clear focus indeed. It looked a bit like it might be a person. He zoomed in further. Now he could tell it was ... there was a hand ...  
  
"It's Harry," he said gravely.  
  
"Is he ..." Snape began to ask, before shutting up.  
  
"It looks like it," said Sirius. "He must have fallen."  
  
"Or jumped," said Snape, in a tone that suggested, if anything, eminent satisfaction.  
  
"It has to have been deliberate," Remus reasoned, taking his new, improved binoculars back off of Sirius, and focusing them on what was now unmistakably Harry's body. He was wrapped very tightly in his robes, and a shock of jet black hair was just visible sticking out. "People don't just walk off cliffs ..."  
  
"He could've done," Hagrid cut in, running a hand contemplatively through his vast beard. "If he wasn't looking where he was going. Or perhaps it was dark, or something. Stranger things have happened, and I don't believe Harry would ever do anything like try and do himself in ... I won't believe it until Harry tells it to my lips."  
  
"We ought to consider all avenues," said Sirius.  
  
Snape gave a sarcastic cough. "And Mr. Black was the one who was certain his precious Godson had been done in."  
  
"You just don't let up, do you?" sneered Sirius.  
  
"He might not even be dead," said Remus, although the tone his voice had taken on as he stared at the limp and distant form through the binoculars suggested he was merely saying this so as not to cause Sirius some kind of breakdown.  
  
"Equally, he might be," said Snape, who was not concerned with Sirius' mental stability at all.  
  
"How are we supposed to get down there?" asked Remus, lowering the binoculars and turning to face the other three. Sirius looked to Hagrid.  
  
Hagrid coughed. "Well," he began, scratching his chin ... his thought processes appeared to be moving at much the same speed as glaciers. "There is a path. About two miles east of here, that leads down the side of the ridge."  
  
Sirius nodded. "Let's go for it ..."  
  
"Or we could just go all the way around and down the other side," Hagrid went on. "That's be at least a ten mile walk. We wouldn't do it before twilight."  
  
Sirius checked his watch. It was nine in the morning. "Not an option," he said, after a few second's thought. "We take the path ..."  
  
"Or," said Snape, as if this had been obvious all the time, which, really, it had been, "we could Apparate down."  
  
"You have to admit that's a better plan," said Remus thoughtfully.  
  
Sirius conceded. "Very well ... but it still doesn't mean I like you, Snape. I still loathe you passionately ..."  
  
"And rest assured that I feel exactly the same way," said Snape, with ice in his voice.  
  
"One problem," said Remus. "How are we going to get Harry back up here. He can't Apparate, he doesn't have a licence."  
  
Sirius looked triumphant. "Ha! Take that in your pipe and smoke it, baldy!"  
  
Snape sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Really, considering that incident with the hallucinogenic drugs in my oatmeal - I am too good to you, Black."  
  
"He, that was funny," said Sirius wistfully.  
  
Snape pointed his wand at the clump of bushes, and in a very bored voice, said, "Accio Harry!"  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
"Maybe it doesn't work on humans," said Sirius hopefully.  
  
"Of course it works on humans. Don't pretend to be more of an ignoramus than you already are," snapped Snape. "I just need to concentrate more power on the spell."  
  
"Concentrate more power on the spell," Sirius mimicked cruelly. "Who does he think he is, David bleeding Copperfield?"  
  
"He is a distant cousin of mine, actually," said Snape. "Accio Harry!"  
  
This time, the bushes rustled, and something shot up into the air, and flew towards them. With a thump, Harry landed at their feet. Remus and Sirius instantly dropped to their knees beside him. Snape remained standing and Hagrid turned away, unable to contain himself any longer. They could hear him blowing his nose loudly.  
  
"What do we do, what do we do?" asked Remus.  
  
Sirius meanwhile, was staring, transfixed at a point on Harry's throat, where a long thin cut, that had stopped bleeding some time ago, was lying right across his windpipe.  
  
"He tried to cut his throat," Sirius intoned, in a voice so low it was nothing more than the faintest whisper.  
  
"First things first, is he breathing?" demanded Remus.  
  
"I ... how do we find out?"  
  
"Oh for God's sake!" snapped Remus. "Don't you even know the basics?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. Remus put his hands to Harry's temple, feeling for a pulse. He took his hand away, and shook his head.  
  
"I can't feel a pulse," he said.  
  
"Should you be able to?"  
  
Remus nodded. "I'll see if there's still one in his wrist. Perhaps he's just slowed down his metabolism."  
  
"Would that be a good thing?" asked Sirius frantically.  
  
"Yes," said Remus, feeling Harry's wrist with his fingers. Still nothing. "Wizards can do that sort of thing, you see. Gives them more chance of survival if they can cut their metabolic rate in half ..."  
  
"How does this actually help?" asked Sirius, brushing hair frozen with ice off Harry's forehead. His scar had turned a funny shade of blue. "He's dead, isn't he?"  
  
Remus suddenly shook his head. "No, he isn't," he said. "He's very definitely alive. He just ... doesn't seem to have a pulse right now."  
  
"How can you tell?"  
  
"I just know," said Remus. "I'm part wolf ... we have instinct for these things. I think we may need to thaw him out."  
  
"Thaw him out?"  
  
Remus nodded.  
  
"You mean blankets, hot fires and stuff? Or were you planning to defrost him? Like a turkey?"  
  
"A bit of both," said Remus slowly. "Sirius, give me your cloak."  
  
Sirius struggled out of his cloak without even protesting, and handed it over. Very carefully, Remus wrapped it around Harry's freezing body, observing as he did so that one of his legs was quite badly broken. That would have to wait until they got back up to Hogwarts, there was no time for a quick fix whilst they were out here. They were wasting time as it was.  
  
  
Sirius laid his hand on Harry's forehead. "He's freezing to the touch," he said. Remus nodded.  
  
"I know," he said. "His body temperature has dropped below 32 degrees, considerably," he said.  
  
"Is that dangerous?"  
  
"Very, the optimum temperature for the human body is 37.5 centigrade exactly," said Remus. "Even a few degrees difference can mean life or death. If you go below a certain threshold, there is very little that can be done for you."  
  
"Has Harry gone below it?"  
  
Remus regarded the boy's form with pity. "Considerably," he said.  
  
"Then we should get him back," said Sirius.  
  
"It'd be a bit of a hike," said Remus. "We need to have him back immediately. You don't, by any incredible chance, know how to set up a portkey?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "I was ... in the hospital wing when we did that part."  
  
"Bollocks, you were in a broom cupboard with Lily," said Remus. "Hey, Severus!"  
  
Snape scowled. "What?" he asked with venom.  
  
"Do you know how to set up a portkey? We need to get Harry back to the castle straight away ..."  
  
**************  
  
Someone was wrapping something around his forehead. It was very warm, hot even, but very pleasant, all the same. Hands smoothed down the blankets that were covering his body, and then he heard retreating footsteps.  
  
Harry tried to open his eyes, but couldn't. His eyelids would not part. He could hear voices, but they sounded somehow distant. He had the feeling that they were talking about him.  
  
"... thought we'd never get back," someone who sounded like Sirius was saying. "Thankfully Professor Snape is a dab hand at a Summoning Charm."  
  
Harry did not hear the other person's reply properly.  
  
"Oh yes," Possibly-Sirius was saying. "I think perhaps it would be best if we didn't let them see him right away."  
  
"They are quite keen to," the second voice said, more clearly this time. Harry could hear footsteps approaching him across a tiled floor.  
  
He opened his mouth. "I can't see anything."  
  
Whoever was standing near him let out a slight expectoration of surprise. "Harry?"  
  
That was a Welsh accent. Doctor Jones?  
  
"Who is that?"  
  
"It's me, Harry, Gwyneth," said the voice. "Sirius is here as well."  
  
Harry was feeling too fretful to be pissed off that Gwyneth was there. "I can't see anything," he repeated, his voice going slightly whiny. "Why can't I see?"  
  
"One moment," said Gwyneth. "Sirius, pass me the flannels."  
  
There was the sound of activity, and of something being sloshed in water. A second later, Harry felt something very warm and soft dabbing at his eyelids.  
  
"I just have to ... melt the ice," he heard Gwyneth say. "Don't move too much, I don't want to get your bedclothes wet. I'm going to melt your eyelids."  
  
"Why am I in bed?" asked Harry. Gwyneth continued to dab at his eyelids, and ignored his question. So did Sirius.  
  
"There," she said, after a minute had passed. "Try now."  
  
Harry opened one eye, very cautiously, let out a slight squeak of surprise as blinding light flooded in, and closed his eyes again. Gwyneth swore, and there was the sound of something being hastily adjusted.  
  
"Sorry, Harry, that was a candle," she said.  
  
Harry was becoming increasingly aware of just how cold he was. He could tell that enough bedclothes to smother an elephant had been piled on top of him, and by the feel of things, he was wearing not only his pyjamas, but also his thick, camel hair dressing gown, and big socks on his feet.  
  
"Is it okay?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, open your eyes now," said Gwyneth softly. Harry did.  
  
He was in the Hospital Wing, and the curtains, which had humorous bunny rabbits on them, were drawn about his bed. Sirius was sitting in a chair at his left hand side, looking worried, and Gwyneth was leaning over him.  
  
Harry felt very groggy.  
  
"Drink this," said Sirius, forcing a silver goblet into Harry's hands. There were delicious smelling vapours issuing from the tepid purplish liquid within.  
  
"What is it?" asked Harry.  
  
"Pepper-Up Potion," Sirius said. "Madam Pomfrey's added some blackcurrant to make it taste nicer."  
  
Harry was just about to ask why on earth they thought he needed Pepper-Up Potion, but did not; he was very cold, after all. He raised the goblet to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the sweet tasting liquid trickling down his parched throat, and warmth spreading through his frozen insides.  
  
He looked over at Sirius. His Godfather was regarding him with an attitude that Harry could not remember having seen before from anybody close to him. It was, he realised with a start, the exact same look as had been plastered across Mrs. Weasley's face when they had arrived back from the Quidditch World Cup, the summer before last, a look of ... there was no other way to accurately describe it, parental concern.  
  
Something was very badly wrong.  
  
Harry could feel himself beginning to shiver violently, he really was very cold indeed. His teeth began to chatter.  
  
"How did I get back here?" he stuttered.  
  
Sirius leant forwards. "We found you," he said. "We realised you'd run away when you didn't turn up to your group therapy session yesterday evening. But, Harry, running away is one thing. Throwing yourself off a cliff is quite another ..."  
  
Harry nearly spat out his mouthful of blackcurrant all over the covers. "Throw myself off a cliff? Sirius?"  
  
"Harry, let's not play silly games here," said Sirius.  
  
"I'm not playing games ... I ... I ..."  
  
He got no further, Sirius leant forwards, and grabbed him roughly around the shoulders, hoisting him partway out of bed. "Harry! Don't do this to us! Not anymore! Just stop it. You didn't even think of what we were going through. You didn't even think about how everyone would feel. You just decided to go ahead and take the selfish option ... everyone else can go screw themselves, as far as you're concerned ... eh?"  
  
"Sirius!" snapped Gwyneth. "Let the boy alone."  
  
Harry glanced swiftly over to her, his eyes filling with tears as he did so.  
  
"I don't understand," he faltered.  
  
Sirius released Harry, who flopped back down amongst the covers, and returned to his chair. He was breathing hard, his eyes narrowed, his face contorted into an ugly scowl.  
  
"I don't understand you," Harry repeated. "You're making out like ... like I tried to kill myself. Why would I do that?"  
  
Gwyneth reprimanded Sirius. "After all that, Sirius Black. I expected more compassion from you, of all people. Sometimes I think it's no wonder we're in this mess."  
  
Harry looked again at Gwyneth, whose normally perfect blonde hair was uncombed and straggly looking. Was she sticking up for him?  
  
"Perhaps you should come back later?" she went on.  
  
Sirius looked at his lap, and twiddled his thumbs. He looked, thought Harry, like a particularly angry teenager.  
  
"I said, perhaps you should come back later," Gwyneth said again.  
  
Sirius, trying very hard not to scowl, got up, opened the curtains and stalked out of the ward, banging the door behind him. Harry watched him go, and turned back to Gwyneth.  
  
"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Harry," said Gwyneth. "Are you feeling any better now?"  
  
Harry wasn't ... he was still shivering all over.  
  
"Drink that all up; it'll help," she went on.  
  
"I don't understand anymore," said Harry weakly. He sipped from the goblet, and once again felt the warmth spreading all the way down his body to his toes.  
  
Gwyneth sighed, and sat down next to him on one of the chairs. "God knows, Harry, I never thought I'd have to do this," she said.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"We don't understand it either, Harry," Gwyneth went on. "Nobody understands anything anymore. I think that might partly be the problem."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"Everything's just gone topsy-turvy again," said Gwyneth. "It's getting like it was back in the olden days, when You-Know-Who was last powerful. Nobody knows who to trust, nobody knows what's going on anymore. It was in the papers the other day that a load of workers at the Ministry got sacked by Fudge for plotting to get rid of him, people are going missing."  
  
"What does this have to do with me ..."  
  
Gwyneth was about to say, 'everything,' but decided that that was probably a very bad idea indeed. "Harry, you can't run away from this. You can't hide from it."  
  
Harry looked hurriedly away.  
  
"I guess you went looking, then," he said.  
  
Gwyneth nodded. "We found the note you left. Harry, we had no idea what it meant. We were so worried, so bloody worried about you."  
  
Harry blinked owlishly. Gwyneth almost burst into tears on the spot. "They spent all night out on the moors looking for you."  
  
"I remember falling," started Harry.  
  
"You walked off the edge of the Hog's Back ... it's a ridge not far from here. But if it's dark, you could easily have missed it. But that's what happened."  
  
"I remember falling," Harry repeated uncertainly. "I didn't mean to fall."  
  
"I know you didn't," said Gwyneth, sincerely. "But that note you left. Harry, we didn't know what might have happened to you. We didn't know if it meant you were running away. We didn't know if it meant you were about to jump off the Astronomy Tower, or what."  
  
Harry stared at his lap intently. After a brief pause, he croaked. "I'm, sorry."  
  
"Don't," said Gwyneth sharply. "Harry, you of all people have nothing to be sorry for right now. Have you finished that drink?"  
  
Harry nodded, and felt her hands gently prising his fingers off the goblet's stem. "I'll get rid of this silly old thing for you then."  
  
Harry was feeling increasingly awkward. He was getting the feeling that Gwyneth was trying to mother him, or something.  
  
He was just about to say something to that effect, when the doors at the far end of the ward burst open suddenly, and Ron, Hermione and, of all the people he least expected to see, Draco, came into the room. Hermione was holding a small cardboard box covered in red tissue paper, and Ron had brought grapes for some reason. Only Draco, who looked supremely nonchalant, had not brought anything with him.  
  
Gwyneth rose from her chair. "I expect you'll be wanting to see your friends," she said to Harry. "I'll go see if I can find Sirius anywhere."  
  
"I don't want to see Sirius," said Harry firmly.  
  
"How about Dumbledore?" suggested Gwyneth.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Dumbledore will just get all philosophical on me," he said.  
  
"Anybody?" asked Gwyneth, a hint of desperation creeping into her erstwhile calm voice.  
  
"No," said Harry.  
  
The others were approaching him cautiously. Gwyneth got up, and immediately, Ron jumped backwards.  
  
"I honestly don't bite," she said, grinning. "Look, Harry. I'll be in the next room. If they get too rough with you, then holler and I'll run them off with a mattock."  
  
She leant down, and did something she had never done before, and something Harry had certainly not been expecting; delivered a little kiss to his forehead, before smiling, and tactfully withdrawing.  
  
Harry could feel himself blushing.  
  
It was Draco who spoke first. "The whole school is saying you walked off a cliff in the dark, Potter. Is it true?"  
  
Hermione gave Draco a fierce scowl.  
  
"It's true," said Harry, weakly, grinning at Ron, who looked away, shaking his head.  
  
"What?" asked Harry. "What's with you? At least Malfoy, who is hardly the master of put downs, has come up with *something* entertaining to say."  
  
Draco snorted indignantly.  
  
Ron sat down on the end of the bed, narrowly missing Harry's broken leg. Then he fixed Harry with an angry glare.  
  
"Do you have any bloody idea," he began, "how worried we were?"  
  
"Sorry?" suggested Harry. Draco was muttering something about showing people put downs. The others ignored him.  
  
"I thought," said Ron, "that our chat yesterday helped. I thought that meant something. I thought we were getting somewhere. I didn't think you were going to run off immediately and hurl yourself off of high places."  
  
"Ron," said Hermione angrily.  
  
"I thought we were friends. I thought we talked about these things," said Ron, looking away, defeated. Harry immediately felt his heart sink. Of all the consequences he had imagined ... for of course, hadn't he secretly known he would be brought back to Hogwarts, ashamed and humiliated ... this was the one he had not foreseen. He had not even dared imagine that there could be any way Ron would *not* believe him. And that hurt.  
  
"I'm sorry," he repeated, feeling another wave of shivering overcome his weak frame. "I wasn't thinking."  
  
"We were out of our minds!" Ron went on. "Sirius came up to the Common Room. They found your little note. They thought it meant you'd topped yourself. They were beside themselves ... so were we. If Professor Lupin hadn't been here they'd have held your funeral straight away."  
  
"Lupin's here?" asked Harry excitedly, sitting up in bed. He hadn't spoken to Remus Lupin, who had been his favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, since the end of his Third Year. Lupin had resigned after Snape had 'let slip' in a fit of impotent rage that he was a werewolf. He had *seen* him at Sirius' Trial, of course, but being key witnesses, Magical Law prevented them from having any contact.  
  
"Can I see him?" Harry asked.  
  
"He's having coffee with Dumbledore," said Hermione. "He promised to come up and see you after lunch. Anyway, he persuaded Sirius to search the moors. And they found you out there, them and Snape and Hagrid."  
  
Harry felt oddly subdued.  
  
"Why did you do it?" asked Hermione.  
  
Harry almost felt like shrugging, but then he realised that in truth, he knew the answer to that particular question. "I thought you'd be better off without me," he said, falteringly, knowing as he said it how ridiculous he must sound. That must surely rank as the most difficult thing he had ever had to say to anybody.  
  
But this did not get the reaction he was expecting. Instead, Hermione flung her arms about him and knocked him back amongst the pillows.  
  
"Oh, Harry!"  
  
"Of course we wouldn't," said Ron, glaring at Draco, as though daring him to make a wisecrack. Draco merely kept his hands in his pockets, and looked innocent. This took the wind out of Ron's sails somewhat. "Harry, we'd have been ... it almost was. There was almost a wake. They were going to break out the black drapes for the Great Hall."  
  
"Everyone wants you here," said Hermione. "Even us. Even the ones you might not think ..."  
  
"Like him?"  
  
Hermione looked at Draco, then nodded. "Exactly like Draco," she said.  
  
"Um ... small personality issue here," Draco said in a quiet voice.  
  
Hermione released Harry from her bear-like grip, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.  
  
"We brought you some presents too," said Ron. "But you mustn't think this is going to happen every time you nearly die. So don't use it as an excuse."  
  
Harry grinned.  
  
"It isn't much," said Hermione, handing him the box. "I got it in Hogsmeade last time we went in. I was saving it for Christmas, but I thought, what the hell?"  
  
Harry looked at her, and grinned widely again. Then he tore the tissue paper off the cardboard box, and opened it.  
  
Inside was a small wizarding photo in a silver frame. It showed Harry, Ron and Hermione, all of whom were waving vigorously at the camera. Harry didn't ask when it had been taken, but it looked like some time during the Second Year.  
  
"Turn it over," said Hermione.  
  
Harry flipped the frame over. On the back, someone had very carefully engraved a message in rather florid script.  
  
'Summer 1992. To the best friend we ever had. All our love. R&H.'  
  
"That must have cost you," was all Harry could think of to say. "It's lovely," he added, turning it back over to look at the smiling children waving back at them. Ron had his arm around their shoulders, and was laughing at something.  
  
"I brought some grapes," said Ron. "I'll put them in a bowl, or something."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry, who had gone bright red again. "Thanks a lot."  
  
Draco was scrabbling around in the pockets of his robes. "I ... um, feel a bit silly," he said.  
  
"You didn't have to get anything," said Harry. Draco looked even more flustered.  
  
"Uh, no, I should do," he said. He fished out a small bag of Every-Flavour Beans. "I sorted the strawberry ones out, I'm afraid," he said.  
  
"I'm touched," said Harry, meaning it. He opened the top of the bag, and popped one of the sweets into his mouth. "Hmm, onion bhaji."  
  
He got no further, for this time, both Hermione and Ron hugged him.  
  
END OF PART FOUR.  



	5. The Watcher In The Woods

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
DISCLAIMER  
  
Some/most of the characters, concepts and locations used in this work are the sole intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury and various other publishing houses and production companies worldwide. I do not imply ownership or any rights over said items. I have also, as always, borrowed happily from Discworld, Rankin, sitcoms, old movies and so on.  
  
THE CELTS, QUIDDITCH, AND A FEW NOTES AND RANTS.  
  
In the writing of this, I have shamelessly pillaged ancient Celtic mythology and hearsay in order to create a more believable magical heritage and belief system. Therefore, if you are familiar with the Celts or other peoples of ancient Britain, or have particularly strong Celtic ancestry, you may recognise characters, snippets of legend and place names. I do not intend for this history to be associated with ancient British mythology, except in the broadest sense. Therefore please do not take offence if I make mistakes or mix things up. I'm still learning!  
  
Quidditch Through the Ages - Please don't nitpick me over not conforming to JK's 13 Teams rule. For reasons of continuity within my stories there are many more teams than that in my Potterverse.  
  
The Lyrics - The lyrics at the start come from the song that was the inspiration for Harry's 'beautiful dream' sequence in this chapter. The song is taken from a folk album called 'Open Sky' and I heartily recommend it.  
  
EYES OPEN, GANG!  
  
Oh, and this is a significant chapter, so eyes peeled. Important snippets are buried within!  
  
Dedicated to the betas because I feel like it.  
  
Enjoy.  
  
PART FIVE. THE WATCHER IN THE WOODS.  
  
Wave after wave rolls on  
And the water falls and the line is drawn  
Wave after wave rolls in  
And the line is gone, where my feet have been  
Hills that I know are there  
Hidden from my view by the misty air  
Light shining through the grey  
Turns the water deep shades of lilac blue.  
  
Iona.  
  
**************  
  
Harry drifted in and out of consciousness for most of that morning. He felt too tired and weary to talk for very long to anybody. Even the twenty minutes he spent talking to Ron, Hermione and Draco exhausted his already feeble system, and he needed to take Gwyneth up on her kind offer to run them off with a mattock. The next time he woke up, the clock on the wall proclaimed it to be getting close to midday, and there was someone new sitting next to his bed. Professor Lupin.  
  
Harry sat up at once, and almost sent his bedspread to the floor in the process.  
  
"Calm down, Harry," said Professor Lupin, chuckling. He rearranged the bedclothes, and made Harry go very red.  
  
"I didn't expect to see you, um, Professor," said Harry.  
  
"My name is Remus," said Professor Lupin. "Call me that, would you?"  
  
Harry nodded. "It'll feel odd," he said guardedly.  
  
"I was only a teacher for one year," said Remus, pretending to look affronted at Harry's previous remark. "There really is no need. I'm only up here to help Sirius with the wedding plans."  
  
"You couldn't do a spot of Defence Against the Dark Arts while you're here though?" asked Harry hopefully.  
  
Remus shook his head. "I doubt very much Dumbledore would offer me a contract anymore, not after Professor Snape's little vendetta came off successfully," he said. "No, its back to the carefree life of a bachelor for me."  
  
He caught the look on Harry's face. "Why, is the new bloke not up to much?"  
  
"Winston-Smythe?" said Harry. "He's okay, I suppose. A bit dull."  
  
"Dull is good, Harry," said Remus. "I'd be too much of a liability. All it takes is one night when I forget to take my potion ... and bang ... big hairy monster. You witnessed it yourself."  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Anyway, Winston-Smythe isn't a bad sort. I met him once or twice before. He's too dull to consider working for Voldemort. He's too dull for Voldemort to bother with. He's safe."  
  
"Unlike any of the others," said Harry glumly.  
  
"The others were all a bit of a let-down, I suppose," conceded Remus. "Hey ... wait a minute!"  
  
"You were all right," said Harry quickly.  
  
Remus smiled, and looked as though he was going to ruffle Harry's hair. Fortunately, for Harry at least, he didn't. "Flattery gets you nowhere, Harry."  
  
He did look quite pleased, however.  
  
"Where did you go after Hogwarts?" asked Harry.  
  
"Back home," said Remus. "I have a house in a place called Chudley, in Devon. I spent a couple of weeks in the Black Forest ... International Lycanthrope Conference, and then I've been doing freelance work for the Ministry ever since."  
  
"What sort of work?" asked Harry.  
  
"Secret work," said Remus, tapping the side of his nose. "I'd tell if I could, or if I didn't think it would mean hastening my own death. Just kidding," he added, catching the expression that crossed Harry's face at the mention of death.  
  
They both went very quiet.  
  
"How are you bearing up?" asked Remus, after about thirty seconds had passed.  
  
"I thought that was obvious," said Harry. "I've nearly died twice now."  
  
Remus sighed awkwardly. "I can't pretend that I know how to make this any easier for you, Harry," he said. "I can tell you how sorry I am that things worked out the way they did until I'm blue in the face, but, um, I kind of doubt that's going to have much of an effect on you?"  
  
"If only Sirius could put it like that," said Harry wistfully.  
  
"Yeah, well, you'll get used to Padfoot, after a while," said Remus.  
  
"He's just ... it's like he's saying he's going to marry Gwyneth whatever happens," said Harry inarticulately.  
  
"How do you feel about that?"  
  
"I still don't want him to," said Harry.  
  
"The trouble with Sirius," said Remus, "is that he has a very egocentric personality. You need to get used to that. I know he adores you, Harry, I know that he thinks of himself as some kind of surrogate father. He ... he's just, well, he's spent, how long, twelve odd years, or thereabouts in the most indescribable place in the world, and frankly it's a miracle he's not completely insane. He's come out of Azkaban with a significantly different side to him; he's more nurturing. He cares more. I've not seen him for any significant amount of time since he got put away, but he's altered for the better. He's just still a bit of an egomaniac."  
  
"He was saying it was my fault though," said Harry woefully.  
  
Remus shook his head. "You, Harry, have nothing whatsoever to be sorry for. If he says it again, tell me, and I'll smack him," he said. "Look, I'm getting you all worked up. You should rest. I'll get Madam Pomfrey to mix something up for you. Need any more pillows?"  
  
There were enough pillows already on the bed to keep a small 3rd World country supplied for years. Harry indicated no.  
  
"Perhaps you ought to try and get some sleep then?" suggested Remus. He put his hand to Harry's forehead. "You're definitely warming up ... that's good."  
  
Harry lay back amongst the pillows. Remus bent over him, and brushed a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes out of the way.  
  
"You really need a haircut," he said, not unkindly. "Try and rest, won't you. I expect they'll let Ron and Hermione up to see you later."  
  
**************  
  
By that evening, Harry had recovered sufficiently to be allowed to go back to Gryffindor Tower, where he was told to go straight to bed and not to move for anything. His leg, having been mended successfully by Madam Pomfrey, was working fine again, although as he walked slowly back up to the Tower with Ron, he suddenly came over all woozy, and had to lean on his friend for a couple of minutes until the horrible giddy feeling went away again.  
  
That night, he slept better than he had done in ages, and no dreams, at least, not ones violent or disturbing enough to be remembered come morning, troubled him.  
  
He awoke on Saturday morning to find sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows of the dormitory, casting beautiful mosaics of colour on the hard stone floor. He checked his watch, but it was only half past seven, and as classes on Saturday began at the slightly more respectable hour of ten o'clock, decided it was well worth having a lie in. He closed the hangings again, and lay back down.  
  
Harry lay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep for thirty minutes or so, before he heard the sound of footsteps outside, and then the sound of the dormitory door being unlatched.  
  
Harry sat up, and wrenched back the hangings around his bed. Sirius was standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, yet already attired for the day in his plain black work robes. He was smiling, but to Harry, Sirius was the last person alive he wanted to see right now.  
  
"Morning," said Sirius, upon catching sight of Harry. "I'm glad you're awake."  
  
"What are you doing here?" asked Harry angrily. "I thought you weren't talking to me?"  
  
Sirius walked over to the bed on tiptoe so as not to wake any of the other boys. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked, ignoring Harry's question completely.  
  
"Knock yourself out," said Harry.  
  
Sirius sat down tentatively on the foot of Harry's bed, causing the mattress to sag noticeably.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Harry only glared at Sirius all the more.  
  
"I'd ... I want to apologise to you. It was out of order, what I said yesterday. I ... I was tired and I was angry and I hadn't had enough sleep ..."  
  
Harry could sense he was blushing, and he looked away hastily, and tried very hard to think of something else.  
  
"We were just very, very worried about you."  
  
Harry croaked a feeble reply that Sirius did not hear.  
  
"And," Sirius went on, "Gwyneth's had a talk with me ... quite a, um, talk, actually, and please take some notice of me, Harry; stop looking the other way."  
  
Harry turned to face Sirius again. "I have nothing to say to you," he said in a low voice.  
  
Sirius' face fell, and he spread his arms wide in despair. "Harry ... please!"  
  
He stopped, and froze suddenly, and Harry could sense his eyes moving slowly down to the cut on his neck; the cut he had not dared tell anybody about. Did Sirius know about it? He wasn't sure.  
  
"Is your throat okay?" asked Sirius  
  
"Nothing," said Harry, mishearing the question, and hastily tugging the bedclothes up around him so as to hide it.  
  
Sirius put his hand on Harry's throat, and moved the duvet gently away. Harry could sense Sirius' eyes moving down his neck.  
  
"Harry ... I ... I was talking to Dumbledore about this. I just ... want to know ... what you, why you did this. Why you tried to cut your own throat," said Sirius haltingly. "I can accept you walked off the cliff because it was dark and you couldn't see where you were going, but cutting your own throat ... what did you hope to achieve?" His voice had once again taken on that harsh, angry tone that he had done the previous day, and the day before, and Harry's face fell, and he started to blink to keep back the tears.  
  
"If I tell," he whispered. "Promise not to tell anybody else?"  
  
"I can't do that, Harry," said Sirius. "I'm responsible for you ..."  
  
Harry chanced a glance over to the other beds in the dormitory ... the hangings were drawn very tightly about them, and the occupants were all snoring lightly.  
  
"It happened in a dream," he said, aware even as he spoke how utterly ridiculous this sounded.  
  
Sirius looked at Harry as if he was mad. "In a dream?"  
  
Harry nodded. "I had some sort of hallucination, or dream, or something, I don't really know what it was. Draco was there, and he sort of metamorphosed into Vol ..." Harry choked, "into Voldemort. He did this ..."  
  
Sirius looked dumbfounded. "But everyone knows that's impossible," he said. "I mean, we were working ... there was ..."  
  
Harry looked away again.  
  
"Oh bloody hellfire. Harry, this is very serious indeed. I'm going to have to tell Dumbledore about this. You do understand that?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "Please, I asked not to?" he clamoured.  
  
Sirius closed his eyes, and looked down at his hands, which were knotted intricately together. "Harry, if what you're saying is true, then this is very, very serious indeed. It has implications for all of us. I have to speak to Dumbledore."  
  
**************  
  
Harry staggered through his Saturday morning lessons as best he could, the task made a little easier with the thought of a trip into Hogsmeade to sustain him. Ron and Hermione helped him out with the complicated potions they were making, Draco kept sneaking glances in their direction, as if he shared their concern, and even Doctor Jones, sorry, Gwyneth, seemed noticeably less hostile, not just to Harry but to the whole class as well.  
  
The three of them were heading up to Gryffindor Tower, having planned to skip the option of taking lunch at Hogwarts, in favour of a pub lunch down at the Three Broomsticks, when they were waylaid by Sirius and Professor McGonagall, who were standing in the corridor outside the Portrait Hole, and looked as if they were waiting for something.  
  
"Ah, Harry," said Professor McGonagall. Harry did a double take, as she had never been known to call a student by their Christian name before. "May we borrow you for a bit?"  
  
"We were just about to go off to Hogsmeade, Professor," interjected Hermione, "but," she went on, taking note of Professor McGonagall's lips, which were thinning in anticipation of an outburst, "as you want to speak to him, I'm sure we can spare the time."  
  
"Perhaps they'd better come along as well?" suggested Sirius, indicating Ron and Hermione.  
  
Professor McGonagall nodded. "Very well," she said. "You'd better come with us then."  
  
They were led through the school, until, not surprisingly, at least for Harry, they found themselves outside the door that lead up to Dumbledore's tower office. Neither Ron nor Hermione had ever been up here before and both of them looked rather excited.  
  
"Pepper Imps," sighed Professor McGonagall, in a tone that suggested she found Dumbledore's method of selecting passwords somewhat frivolous. Needless to say, the door swung open, and they began to climb the stairs, Hermione and Ron staring at the portraits and tapestries that lined the walls.  
  
Professor Dumbledore was waiting for them, sitting behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the wooden surface. He beamed as they filed in through the door, and with a wave of his wand, had produced five chairs in front of his desk.  
  
"Take a seat," he said. "No need to look quite so frightened, Mr. Weasley; I've never bitten yet."  
  
Ron went furiously red, but took his seat anyway, in between Harry and Hermione.  
  
"Sirius told me about what happened, Harry," said Dumbledore softly. "You do realise what this means?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"I once told you that the Dark Lord never managed to conquer the secrets of sleep, but if he ever did ..." he trailed off, as if uncertain what to say next.  
  
Sirius looked briefly at Harry, who was still looking confused.  
  
"It means, well, it means we have no defence against him," said Sirius quietly.  
  
Dumbledore looked very grave. "I'm afraid Sirius is right," he said. "And if what you have told us is true."  
  
Harry looked up suddenly.  
  
"May I have a look?"  
  
Harry sighed, nodded, then stood up, and walked forwards to the desk. "Just there," he said, indicating the small cut on his throat. Dumbledore pushed his spectacles down to the tip of his nose, and peered closer at Harry.  
  
"Yes, I see," he said.  
  
"It was a dream ... I think ..." Harry began, on the verge of launching into a long and complicated explanation. Dumbledore raised his hand, and Harry calmed down momentarily.  
  
"Sirius has already told me what you said," he said. "I think, perhaps, the best thing for now would be for you to remain under our supervision."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I've already arranged for some Aurors to come up from London and fix the wards," said Dumbledore. "We'll need to keep you inside whilst they're operative, of course. Sirius, I'll need you to go down to Gringotts and bring me the papers from vault eight hundred and thirty two."  
  
"Surely that's Frank ..." Sirius began.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, of course, you'll need a Power of Attorney. I'll sign it for you. Go down to London first thing on Monday ..."  
  
"That wasn't what I meant," said Sirius. "We put them in my vault ... seven hundred and eleven ... Mozart and Elgar didn't want him to think ..."  
  
"And I moved them," said Dumbledore calmly. "I assumed that the risk, at the time, of someone else finding them in your vault, Sirius, was too great."  
  
Sirius paused. "Of course," he said. "I understand."  
  
Dumbledore turned to Gwyneth. "You will need to go directly to Dublin, work out what you can, the equipment might still be there ... there could be any number of notes. Hopefully Mozart left us plenty to go on."  
  
"Shouldn't I stay here?" asked Gwyneth. "I mean ... there are classes to teach."  
  
"I'll ask Severus to cover for you," said Dumbledore. "I understand life in civvy street is hitting him hard."  
  
"Very well then," said Gwyneth. "Monday it is. I'll, um, need ... clearance and stuff."  
  
"I'll sort it out," said Dumbledore.  
  
Harry, Ron and Hermione merely looked more confused than ever before.  
  
"Um," ventured Harry after a brief second's pause.  
  
Dumbledore turned to Harry, and tried very hard to smile in his usual genial manner. But Harry could tell he was putting it on.  
  
"I'm sorry, Harry," he said. "You ... I ... we ... that is to say, none of us can. One day we can tell you. But what has started to happen is dangerous, and highly secret, too. I would tell you if I could, or if I was allowed to ..."  
  
"Perhaps we should send the children on their way, Albus," said Professor McGonagall pointedly.  
  
"That might be for the best," said Dumbledore. "Harry, I hope I can tell you what is going on before very much longer. On the other hand ... " he trailed off again for a second or two, " ... I think it would be better if you all stayed up at the castle this afternoon."  
  
To Harry's eternal relief, Sirius stepped in. "I hardly think that's fair," he said. "Most of the rest of the school will be there this afternoon. Remus and Gwyneth and I are all going in as well. I see no cause for concern."  
  
Dumbledore regarded him frostily, but he turned to Harry anyway, and said, "Go then. But please be careful."  
  
The three waited until they were back down at the bottom of the stairs and safely past the door, before anybody said anything. And when somebody did say something, it was Ron who said it.  
  
"What the hell was all that about?"  
  
Harry could only shrug in confusion.  
  
"We'd better get into Hogsmeade, before they change their minds," Ron went on, seizing Harry by his upper arm. Hermione, on the other hand, grabbed his other arm, resulting in a bizarre tug of war situation.  
  
"I really think we should just stay up in the Common Room," said Hermione firmly. "And Harry thinks the same, don't you, Harry?"  
  
Harry was just about to say, 'Actually, I'd far rather go to Hogsmeade,' but he didn't have to, because Ron said it for him, a great deal more forcefully.  
  
"Well be like that then!" shouted Hermione. "You're a couple of self-absorbed ninnies with no concept of personal safety!"  
  
"Come on, Harry," said Ron, yanking his robes sharply. "We're going."  
  
Not quite knowing what to do, Harry began to walk off with Ron. About a second later, they heard Hermione's breathless shout of, "Wait for me!"  
  
**************  
  
Sirius regarded himself critically in the mirror. The assistant looked on, hardly daring to hope that this suit might be the one. The afternoon had so far been one long trawl through the vast Gladrags Wizardwear Collection in their arty boutique at the upmarket end of Hogsmeade, but aside from a snazzy pair of boxer shorts with fluttering snitches on them, Sirius and his long-suffering friend had found nothing.  
  
"Far too sombre," said Sirius. "I like the style though. I think we can work with that."  
  
The assistant smiled; that, at least, was something.  
  
"Would sir care to try the same suit in navy blue, perhaps. We also have it in burgundy and bottle green."  
  
"Bottle green is hardly appropriate for a wedding," said Sirius, turning sideways on to get a better look. "I'll try the navy blue."  
  
"Very well sir," said the assistant. He backed cautiously out of the room.  
  
Sirius turned to his long-suffering friend, who merely looked down at the floor and twiddled his thumbs.  
  
"What do you think?" he asked.  
  
Remus shrugged. "I can barely contain my indifference," he said. "The black one you tried before was nice."  
  
"Well, why didn't you say so?" said Sirius huffily. "Honestly, I brought you along for a reason."  
  
"Sorry," said Remus. "You can always ask to try it again."  
  
But Sirius wasn't listening. Instead, he began to undo the fastenings on the front of the robe with extravagant care. "Sometimes," he said, as he undressed, "I stop and think; am I really ready for marriage?"  
  
"How do you mean?" asked Remus. "You mean, having been inside all these years?"  
  
"Not exactly," said Sirius, returning the rejected robes to their hanger. "I just can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for the concept, apart from the hours and hours of incredible sex ..."  
  
"Steady on," said Remus.  
  
"But Gwyneth seems so, up for it," said Sirius. "You only have to mention the 'W' word to her and she goes all gooey and starts talking about the band she wants to hire, and whether we should have a marquee, and what the bridesmaids should be wearing. It gets tiresome. And then there's the catering. You do realise, Moony, that we're having no less than five different types of bread rolls? I haven't even any idea what a ciabatta is. Fancy foreign muck, and wine costing twenty Galleons a bottle."  
  
The assistant came back into the fitting room, bearing triumphantly a new set of dress robes in very dark navy blue.  
  
"These are genuine Branfords, you know," he said.  
  
"Isn't everything round here?" said Sirius wryly. "Let's try them on then. Sorry, Moony, you were about to say something?"  
  
"I was going to say cancel," said Remus. "You obviously don't actually want to get married. Better make it quick though, otherwise you'll lose your catering deposit."  
  
Sirius glared at him. The assistant helped him into the robes, and he began to fasten them up to the neck.  
  
"Very suave," he said.  
  
The assistant clapped his hands. "I can see it all now," he said, at which Sirius gave him a very funny look indeed. "You look divine, sir."  
  
"It is rather flattering," said Sirius airily, doing a little twirl in front of the full length mirror. "What say you, Moony?"  
  
Remus nodded. "It fits very well," he said. "A bit long in the leg maybe. You'll want to watch you don't walk through any muddy puddles."  
  
"That can be fixed with a simple mud-repelling charm, sir," said the assistant, with the snooty air of a man telling another that one and one makes two.  
  
"They might be taken up a wee bit," said Sirius uncertainly. The assistant, who had a more practiced eye when it came to this sort of thing, shook his head fervently.  
  
"No, I think it should be fine," he said. "The colour really brings out your eyes. Subdued, formal, yet fun. I like it a lot."  
  
Sirius nodded. "Okay then," he said. "How much?"  
  
"Eight hundred Galleons," said the assistant, keeping a straight face throughout.  
  
But not the slightest flicker of emotion crossed Sirius' face as he began to disrobe.  
  
"I'll go through and wait for you, sir," said the assistant, disappearing through the door. As soon as he had gone, Remus leant forwards.  
  
"What did you mean, Dumbledore's resurrecting the old Order?"  
  
Sirius turned to him ... he was halfway out of the robes. "Ssh," he said, putting his finger to his mouth. "Walls have ears."  
  
"Not these ones," said Remus.  
  
"I meant exactly what I said," said Sirius. "That thing on Harry's neck must have spooked him sufficiently."  
  
"Christ," said Remus. "Is anybody going to Dublin?"  
  
Sirius nodded, as he hung the robes up on their hanger, he continued, "Gwyneth leaves on Monday. I have to go and get the papers out of the vault."  
  
"Yeah ... we ... um, moved them," said Remus. "After you got arrested. We didn't know who might come across them in there. If the Ministry decided to search your vault. We thought, best put them in Haydn and Ravel's account."  
  
"I'm not cross," said Sirius. "I'd have done the same myself."  
  
"Haven't been back to Phoenix Park in years," said Remus, looking nostalgic. "Must have been 1983 when we shut up shop. Wonder how the labs are looking now?"  
  
"That's what Gwyneth will have to work out," said Sirius, struggling back into his Muggle jeans.  
  
"Someone will have to tell Harry."  
  
"I'm rather worried *that* job will fall to me," said Sirius. He pulled on his shirt and began to do up the buttons.  
  
"At least Dumbledore's reading the signs, even if nobody else is," said Remus. He had taken to walking in circles around the tiny room. "Christ, Sirius. It's happening again. It's happening again!"  
  
**************  
Gwyneth swilled the wine about in her mouth for a second or two, and then spat it into the little silver bucket provided for that purpose. She sipped from the small glass of water held out to her, and then looked up.  
  
"What was that one?" she asked.  
  
"Chateau Lafitte, 1978," said the man, holding the bottle up for her to review. "A fine vintage year."  
  
Gwyneth took him at his word. After all, Keith Fraser & Co. was the most exclusive vintners in the wizarding world, and numbered amongst its patrons were Celestina Warbeck, and even Cornelius Fudge. And she had had the good fortune to be served by the great man himself, who, legend had it, knew his way around his vast underground cellar by heart, and owing to a peculiar quirk of space time physics, could locate within it any bottle of wine ever produced, even Liebfraumilch.  
  
"It is thirty Galleons a bottle," hinted Keith, setting it down on a table.  
  
"I did like it," said Gwyneth. "Chateau Lafitte is meant to be good, right?"  
  
Keith nodded. "That, madam, is an understatement," he said.  
  
Gwyneth, who had never seen a vintner in a kilt before, and was staring quite intently at Keith's socks, nodded.  
  
"At thirty-five Galleons a bottle, we have a fine Australian red from 1996," Keith went on, uncorking the bottle. "This is grown from re-annual grapes."  
  
"Re-annual grapes?"  
  
"Grapes that exist backwards," said Keith, as if this had been perfectly obvious all along. "You plant the vines twelve months after you've harvested the crop, whereupon they grow backwards in time."  
  
"That must be complicated," said Gwyneth.  
  
Keith nodded. "Yes, a farmer who forgets to sow normal seeds loses merely his crop. A farmer who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that was harvested twelve months earlier risks disturbing the entire fabric of causality," he poured a little of the wine into a glass, "not to mention it's bloody embarrassing."  
  
Gwyneth sipped the wine. It was surprisingly good.  
  
"I like that one," she said.  
  
Keith eyed her suspiciously. "That one is thirty five Galleons a bottle," he reiterated. "And you have already taken eighty bottles of that Chardonnay, and the same number of dessert wine. And forty bottles of Champagne."  
  
"You're implying I should stick to sweet cider?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
Keith looked shocked. "Not for an instant, madam," he said hurriedly. "I am merely pointing out a truth."  
  
Gwyneth was not so sure. She wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion in rather shabby tweed robes, and Fraser's clientele *did* tend to be rather select.  
  
"How much have I spent on the Chardonnay?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
Keith quickly did the sums in his head. "It comes to two hundred and forty Galleons," he said, shortly. "At three Galleons a bottle."  
  
"And this is?"  
  
"Thirty five Galleons," said Keith. That was slightly more than a hundred and fifty Pounds in Muggle money.  
  
"The same number of the Re-Annual Red would be ..."  
  
"Two thousand, eight hundred Galleons exactly," said Keith. "That's fourteen thousand Pounds."  
  
Gwyneth, who only earned four thousand, four hundred Galleons a year, paled visibly. "I don't think I've ever seen that much money in one place."  
  
"I have," said Keith, not very helpfully.  
  
"Perhaps we should try that South African one," she said. "That was nice."  
  
"At two Galleons a bottle, madam," said Keith. "Very well."  
  
"That would probably be best," said Gwyneth. "How much does, does it all come to, exactly?"  
  
Keith walked round behind his counter, and rang up the numbers on an ancient, hand-cranked cash register, a look of supreme smugness etched across his face.  
  
"Seven hundred and sixty Galleons exactly, madam," he said, at long last. As if to add insult to financial injury, the cash register proceeded to shoot the numbers in mid-air, where they sparkled in brilliant, shimmering gold writing for a moment, before fading to nothing.  
  
"Well, you don't get married everyday," said Gwyneth.  
  
"I'd say it was worth it," said Keith. "We will, of course, deliver free of charge, you're up at Hogwarts, yes?"  
  
"For the foreseeable future," said Gwyneth.  
  
"Staff wedding, eh? You want to watch the bairns don't talk," said Keith, bashing out her receipt on an ancient Muggle typewriter.  
  
"I think they may already be," said Gwyneth. She fished in her handbag for her purse. "Do you take a Magical Express card?" she asked.  
  
**************  
  
It was later that evening, after Harry had headed back into Hogsmeade for his dinner 'en famille', that Hermione's eye was caught by an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (which continued, despite the ongoing turmoil within the Ministry of Magic, to resolutely toe Fudge's line no matter what) purporting to promote a new kind of Cheering Charm.  
  
They had covered Cheering Charms briefly in the Third Year (though Hermione had missed out, owing to her unnaturally complicated timetable), but this, according to the promotional blurb, and the large colour photo of a very happy looking fifty-something in brightly coloured robes that put her in mind of hippies, was a 'revolution in magical aids for the depressed witch or wizard.' It was manufactured in some town she'd never heard of in California and was, quite simply, a small gold chain, worn normally as a kind of necklace, to which was attached a small pendant, which appeared to be made of glass, inside which sparkled some ethereal red vapour that swirled aimlessly about its tiny prison; 'a permanent sense of well-being is yours for the taking with this attractive and provocative pendant. Yours for only 5 Galleons, 5 and 6 Knuts.' That was about twenty five Pounds in Muggle money, she worked out.  
  
She was seriously considering sending off for one, perhaps as a Christmas present for poor Harry, and she probably would have filled in the reply slip on the spot, had her attention not been diverted by the article immediately above.  
  
'... the escape of a patient from St. Mungo's Secure Asylum in Buckinghamshire continues to baffle Magical Authorities today. The patient, a thirty nine year old man, who cannot be identified within these pages for legal reasons, broke out of the centre, whose perimeter is patrolled twenty-four hours a day by officers of the well regarded Magical Security Agency, after overpowering two guards. He left behind all his possessions, except, say carers, his old diary, which he has allegedly kept resolutely at his side since being committed in 1981. Authorities describe the man as short; around five foot eight, clad most probably in a St. Mungo's issue nightgown, with mousy brown hair and a round face. He is not dangerous, but members of the public are advised to contact their nearest branch of the MLES should they see anything suspicious. It is known he has connections and family both in Hogsmeade, Northumberland, and in Lewes, East Sussex, and it is thought he may try to make for one or other of these places.'  
  
Hermione shrugged, and set the paper aside. She wondered vaguely who the man could possibly be trying to contact, before wondering vaguely what was for dinner that evening ...  
  
**************  
  
The Dragon Inn was crowded, but not offensively so, and they didn't find it too hard to get a table. The restaurant, which was just off Hogsmeade High Street, overlooking the river, took the words 'hearty fayre' to new heights. It was furnished in a pseudo-Victorian mock-Tudor mish-mash of styles; there were half timbered beams, which had been recycled from old railway sleepers, horse-brasses and Toby jugs decorated the high shelves. Here and there little corn dollies were hanging from the ceiling, and on the flock wallpapered walls hung assorted sporting oils, which showed old-time Quidditch matches instead of fox hunts, and reproduction Constables. There was also a roaring log fire. The waiter, whom Harry was certain he remembered from Hogwarts, handed them their menus before drifting off to deal with a rowdy party of warlocks who had inadvertently ordered gammon steak without meaning to.  
  
"Well," said Gwyneth, in a tone of forced jollity. "This is nice, isn't it?"  
  
Sirius regarded her suspiciously over the top of his menu. "What's your game?" he asked.  
  
"Well, it is nice," said Gwyneth. "Very pleasant. I never knew there was a restaurant up here."  
  
"Odd, it's been open for years," said Remus. "Can I order anything without horseradish sauce?"  
  
Harry flipped his menu over, and began to read the pudding list.  
  
"Are we having starters?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"Feel free," said Sirius.  
  
"I bet you like it here," said Gwyneth, snuggling against Sirius' shoulder, causing Harry and Remus to shoot looks at one another over their menus.  
  
"Why do you say that?" asked Sirius.  
  
"There's no poncy food," said Gwyneth.  
  
"My evening can be mercifully free of roquette lettuce, then," said Sirius. "And lollo rosso ... Christ, hate the stuff!"  
  
"I fancy the breaded scampi tails with tartar sauce," said Gwyneth.  
  
"They have pate with toast and Cumberland sauce," said Remus. "But the onion rings here are legendary!"  
  
Harry wasn't sure. He didn't want to bring it up, but he was hardly familiar with restaurants, having been only to a handful during his lifetime, and none of them before he had started at Hogwarts. It felt very awkward, being the only kid at a table of adults who all knew each other very well. And to top it all, he was the only one of them who had noticed that Snape, together with a strange woman, had just been seated over by the window.  
  
"Any ideas, Harry?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"Um," said Harry. He picked something at random. "Potato skins? Is that okay?"  
  
"You don't need to ask me," said Gwyneth. "If you want them, then order them."  
  
"Hmm," said Harry. "Or what's calamari?"  
  
"Type of octopus," said Sirius.  
  
"Yuck," said Harry. He looked over at Snape's table, and right on cue, Snape flashed him a glare across the restaurant. Harry looked hurriedly away.  
  
"Something wrong?" asked Remus. The waiter, who Harry was now more certain than ever he recognised, led a youngish looking couple past, and sat them at the next table. The woman was wearing a rather striking red dress, and Harry could barely take his eyes off her.  
  
"Harry," Sirius was saying. Harry took his eyes off the woman's legs, and turned to face Sirius, he could sense his face was red. Remus was struggling not to laugh behind his menu.  
  
"Have you decided what you want to eat yet?" asked Sirius, struggling to keep a straight face. The waiter was standing behind him, looking supremely bored, and holding a tiny little notepad.  
  
"Potato skins," Harry made up his mind quickly. "And, um, chops."  
  
"I'll have a mixed grill," said Remus.  
  
"Scampi, followed by chicken in a basket," said Gwyneth.  
  
"And for me, prawn cocktail and rump steak, medium," said Sirius. "What are we drinking?"  
  
"Butterbeer," said Harry automatically.  
  
"Mine's a pint of large, please, Sirius?" said Remus.  
  
"Likewise," said Gwyneth. "On second thoughts, make it a half."  
  
"I'll have a Bearhugger's Old Peculiar," said Sirius.  
  
"Right you are, sir," said the waiter, who, Harry noticed, kept shooting him odd looks. He definitely knew the man from somewhere. So ruminating, he leant surreptitiously sideways to stare at the woman in the red dress some more.  
  
"Harry," said Gwyneth. "At least try not to make it obvious. Unless you want to be called a pervert in front of the whole restaurant."  
  
Harry's looked quickly in the opposite direction, but was still able to eavesdrop on their conversation if he listened carefully.  
  
" ... had to come up. They paid me to up at the school."  
  
"But how long have you been here?" the man was asking.  
  
"About three weeks. I'd have looked you up, but I always thought you went back to Scotland."  
  
"I did for a bit."  
  
"It was a very pleasant surprise, anyhow."  
  
"Yes. Can I get you another drink, Sinead?"  
  
Harry jumped in shock, and tried to blank out their conversation. Damn! All he needed now was for Voldemort to walk in on the arm of some strange date. He checked the door, just in case.  
  
"Earth to Harry," someone was saying. Harry snapped out of whatever daydream he'd been having, and focused on Sirius.  
  
"We have contact," said Sirius, not unkindly. "We're not that boring, are we?" he asked.  
  
"I just thought I saw someone I know," said Harry.  
  
"Yeah, Snape often comes here," said Remus. "Slimy old bugger. Probably only trying to get into that bird's knickers."  
  
"That bird is Mrs. Snape," Sirius hissed. "I remember her from the Staff Coffee Morning and Whist Drive."  
  
"Snape's married?" Harry exclaimed.  
  
"You wouldn't have thought it, not from him," said Gwyneth. "But it would appear so."  
  
"I heard his wife ran off with a street sweeper from Godalming," said Sirius.  
  
"That was his first wife," said Remus. The waiter came and doled out crusty bread rolls with a pair of metal tongs. They all thanked him politely.  
  
"Well, this is nice," said Gwyneth again.  
  
"You already said that," said Sirius.  
  
Harry broke his roll in half, and started to spread butter on it. The atmosphere in the restaurant was stifling, and heavy with the scent of food wafting up from the kitchens. Conversation did not seem to be coming naturally to any of them.  
  
"So, Harry," said Sirius, trying very hard to be chummy. "You feeling any better today?"  
  
Harry had spent all of Friday recuperating in the Hospital Wing, which had been very boring indeed, save for the couple of hours after lunch when Ron had bunked Divination to come up and sit with him for a while. He had been allowed to go back to Gryffindor Tower that evening.  
  
He was about to come back with something along the lines of 'what would you care?' when he remembered that Sirius was, after all, trying to make it up to him. The part of his mind that was forever resident at Privet Drive kept repeating, 'I must be good, I must be good,' to him like a mantra.  
  
"Fine," said Harry blankly.  
  
"Super," said Sirius.  
  
"Great," said Remus.  
  
Harry couldn't help noticing that Sirius and Remus kept shooting each other knowing looks across the table.  
  
Their starters arrived after twenty minutes. Conversation, if it had not been halting before, was halted entirely now. Everyone was hungry though.  
  
"How're your potato skins?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"Lovely," said Harry. "But it needs more dip. How about your scampi?"  
  
"As good as could be expected," said Gwyneth. "How's your prawn cocktail, Sirius?"  
  
"Tastes like cardboard."  
  
They finished the starters in silence.  
  
"So," said Remus, as they waited for their main course to arrive. "Harry, Sirius tells me Gryffindor are leading for the Quidditch Cup."  
  
"After one match," said Harry, brightening up. "Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw play in a couple of weeks or so."  
  
"Who's fancied in Hufflepuff?" asked Remus, sipping his beer.  
  
"They ... lost a captain last year," said Harry. "So the team's been a bit under-motivated. They found some Lower Sixth Year to do it, but nobody's seen him fly yet, so we don't know if they'll be any good."  
  
"He must have some talent to get on the team," said Sirius. "That Cho girl you liked left didn't she?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Her Dad got recalled to Hong Kong," he said.  
  
Their main courses arrived. They all thanked the waiter politely, and began to eat.  
  
"How're your chops, Harry?" asked Gwyneth, after a few minutes of noisy eating had passed.  
  
"Lovely," said Harry. "But it needs more mustard," Remus passed the mustard. "How's your chicken?"  
  
"As good as could be expected," said Gwyneth, watching Harry spoon a great dollop of mustard onto the side of his plate, where it dribbled down and started to mix into his gravy. "How's your mixed grill, Remus?"  
  
"Meaty," said Remus, spearing a morsel of black pudding on his fork. "How's your rump steak, Sirius?"  
  
"Tastes like cardboard."  
  
They finished the main course in silence. The waiter came and took their plates away. The restaurant was getting very full, and very noisy.  
  
Sirius said, "Well, that was nice. Cardboard cocktail was followed by medium-rare cardboard with sautéed cardboard and fresh garden cardboard, garnished with cardboard rings and half a grilled cardboard."  
  
The waiter hovered near their table, holding more menus.  
  
"May we see the cardboard list?"  
  
"I'm sorry, sir?" the waiter raised his eyebrows.  
  
"The dessert list. I should like to see it," said Sirius pleasantly.  
  
Remus, Gwyneth and Harry pretended to be looking at the reproduction Constables.  
  
**************  
  
The cancellation of Care of Magical Creatures on Monday morning, due to a spate of illness amongst the staff, served Harry's purpose well, which was, namely, to seek the solace and comfort he so desired. There were very few places within Hogwarts Castle itself where he could hide, bang his head against a wall, and if he wanted, have a good cry, or a scream, and so, illegal as it was, he had taken to returning more and more often to the crystal clear tarn in the Forbidden Forest where he had found Draco skulking by the water. Needless to say, he had not seen Draco in the same place since, though he was grateful for the privacy.  
  
As soon as he was safely obscured by the thick trees, the gorse bushes and the dense, prickly undergrowth that grew rampant inside the Forest, he slipped his Invisibility Cloak off his head, the better to be able to walk, and continued on his way.  
  
So well trodden was his little secret path down to the tarn that he could have found his way blindfolded. Eventually, he reached his destination, and despite the coldness of the air, he cleared the snow off a mossy boulder at the water's edge and sat down upon it, staring at his reflection. There, looking up at him, was the face he had to live with, and the face whose connotations he was beginning to despise. There was no escaping the facts of his identity. He was Harry Potter, and would be until he died.  
  
He must have sat there, staring at his reflection in the quietly rippling waters, for at least an hour, when a rustling in the undergrowth disturbed his reverie. He looked up quickly, reaching half-heartedly for his wand, which he had placed on the earthy ground next to him.  
  
The quivering visage of a badger, white and black stripes on a lengthy snout with twitching whiskers and beady eyes stared back at him. It snuffled slightly, and then disappeared again. Harry had always thought badgers were nocturnal, and he wondered what that one was doing awake so early in the day. Perhaps, he reasoned, it has something to do with there being so much magic around these parts.  
  
The magic associated with Hogwarts itself was very ancient, and dated at least as far back as the time of the Founders, perhaps further. In those days the site; the granite outcrop that the castle perched upon had been a sacred site to the Celtic druids, and the magic was much stronger within the Forbidden Forest.  
  
This was allegedly, at least, according to 'Hogwarts: A History,' or more specifically, according to Hermione, because the forest had sprung up to cover the battlefield after two great giants had fought each other for the land, tearing the very earth from the ground and throwing it around to create the moors and mountains.  
  
Before that, the site had been one of the Five Cities of Magic Britain; Ogma, (from which the word Hogsmeade was presumably derived) and it was said that far below the lake were the ruined towers of the city itself, though as the lake was ornamental, and had been dug in the late 1870's, this was probably rubbish. The other cities, as Harry remembered them from History of Magic classes, were called Lludesgata, Llyrcestre, Caer Sarrlog and Camelot; only one of which remained a wholly magical settlement.  
  
Anyway, whatever the Forbidden Forest was hiding, and as long as you glossed over the fact that it was home to creatures who ate first and didn't ask any questions later, an encounter with some of which Harry and Ron had only narrowly escaped in their Second Year, it was really very pleasant. It was a bright and blustery day; the sort that comes very rarely to that part of the country, and shafts of bright sunlight were falling through the black branches of the trees overhead, casting the leaf litter in dappled patterns. Here, in the lee of the small cliff face on the other side of the tarn, Harry was protected from the worst of the wind.  
  
He noticed, for the first time, that there was a small waterfall feeding the tiny lake; a steady stream of water was splashing from the overhanging rocks overhead, which, if you put your mind to it, looked kind of like a simulacrum; a human face.  
  
Indeed, looking around now, Harry was certain he saw other signs of human life. One of the giant boulders on the other side of the tarn looked like it had symbols carved into it. His curiosity aroused, and for wont of anything better to do, he picked his way round to the other side, snaring the hem of his robes on a thorn bush.  
  
The symbols, for that was certainly what they were, were much faded by time, and had clearly been carved a thousand years ago if not more. They looked vaguely like Egyptian hieroglyphs ... certainly they were pictograms, left by a culture with no written alphabet to call their own. Probably they were runes. Ancient Runes was a study not covered by the Hogwarts curriculum at the lower levels of the school, though it was taught as a NEWT Level subject by a very aged woman called Professor Basset, whom nobody ever saw, as she tended to stay in her room with her ancient texts; school rumour had it she was translating Homer's Iliad into Gaelic.  
  
Harry traced the runes with his fingers, and it would have been fitting if a chill had run down his spine, or he had felt a kind of electricity in the air as his fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the boulder. But these things did not happen. Instead, his eye was suddenly caught by another movement in the bushes.  
  
"Who's there?" he said, suddenly afraid, standing up.  
  
There was no answer. Whatever was in the bushes had stopped moving around. Harry was about to turn his attention back to the rune stone, when he heard the noise again, this time slightly closer.  
  
He straightened up again. "Is there someone there? Who are you?"  
  
This time, Harry saw quite plainly what looked like a man standing in the undergrowth a short way off, staring intently at him. He had brown hair, and a round face that greatly resembled that of Neville Longbottom, he was clad in what looked like a flowing gown, which had been white, but was now dirtied by mud. His face was scratched and bleeding, and he looked as though he had been crawling through brier, or something of the sort.  
  
"Are you okay?" asked Harry.  
  
The man simply stared back at him, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.  
  
"Do you speak English?" asked Harry, it being always a possibility in the wizarding world that you didn't; Gaelic and Welsh still being very conversant amongst witches and wizards.  
  
The man did not reply. It looked almost as if he was trying to, but the power of speech seemed to have left him. He made expansive grabbing motions with his hands, as if trying to communicate something of vital importance to Harry.  
  
"I don't understand," called back Harry. He took a step closer. The man looked suddenly alarmed, and drew back.  
  
"It's okay!" he called. "I don't want to hurt you. Can I just see if you're okay? There's a castle nearby ... we can help ..."  
  
But the man had turned, and was off, haring through the undergrowth, into the depths of the forest itself. It did not even occur to Harry to go in pursuit of him. He just stood there for a couple of moments, letting the sweat dry on his body, feeling himself shaking. It was all he could do to keep telling himself that nothing had happened, the man, whoever he was, had not hurt him.  
  
All the same, he was greatly spooked. After about five more minutes had passed, he turned away from the rune stone, and stared back across the tarn to the boulder where he usually sat. It looked different, somehow, though whether or not that was because he was seeing it from a different angle, he was not sure.  
  
**************  
  
The next couple of days passed more pleasantly. Harry was kept very busy with schoolwork, and Quidditch practice, and the teachers, perhaps anticipating the flood of revision for the mock exams that was going to be taking place immediately after the Christmas holidays, had set an inordinate amount of homework. So by the time Harry had finished all that, even with Ron to help him and Hermione to offer advice, it was usually well after ten o'clock, and he did not feel much like talking about the strange man he had seen in the Forbidden Forest.  
  
The dreams, too, had ceased coming with such alarming frequency. At least; the nightmares had. Now his sleep was disturbed only by the most beautiful visions of his parents, and how his life had been, and heaven, and another, more lovely place that he could not recognise, nor recall any detail of when he awoke.  
  
One dream stood out in particular, and it was one that kept recurring. In it he was a baby again, and it was summertime, but it was not sweltering hot; it was cool and pleasant and refreshing, and there were always small, fluffy, white clouds scudding across the sky, which was without fail a deep aquamarine blue. His parents were in it, and they were striding across a scene so bleak as to be beautiful, empty moors, gentle hills rolling away before them, stretching away to the distant Pennine peaks, green grass, knee length, heather and gorse, fragrances wafting through the air.  
  
In his dream, he was being cradled in his Mother's arms, and he could feel the blankets wrapped tightly around his body, and the feel of her hands supporting him, and the feel of her arm as he rested his head on it, seemed so real. She was wearing a long, dark green dress that almost covered her shoes, and her red hair was held back behind a torc band, intricately shaped into a knot pattern, the whole completed by a Celtic cross on a chain around her neck. To Harry, she was the prettiest living creature in the world.  
  
His Father was walking alongside them, one hand protectively on his Mother's shoulder, beaming down at the both of them, his face and jaw square set, yet still retaining a mere hint of childish roundness, and his glasses were perched on his nose, and in the glasses was reflected the pupils of his grey eyes. His unruly black hair was blowing in the afternoon wind.  
  
Both of them were laughing; they were so happy. And so was he.  
  
They came down from the moors, walking across a pasture containing a flock of sheep whose bleating followed them on the breeze, only making his parents laugh even more. Then they were walking down a street that Harry did not recognise. There were small, stone cottages and shops, and in the middle of it, a tiny church with a graveyard, shaded by ancient elm trees. And there was a pub, the sign swinging and the hinges that held it creaking, into which they went for drinks. His Father had a pint of Guinness, and his Mother a gin and tonic, and there were salty bar snacks; crisps, and orange juice for him. They sat down in a window overlooking the street outside, and through the leaded window pains, the glass distorted by age, Harry could see young children playing outside in the street.  
  
There was a band in the pub, playing lilting, haunting melodies that he did not recognise. The instruments looked eons old; harps, drums, uilleann pipes and violins. The music soared and quavered, it brought with it echoes of the sea, of saltwater waves crashing on distant beaches, of horses galloping through the surf, of offshore islands, stacks of rock teeming with seabirds; gannets and gulls, of long walks over desolate moors, standing stones, ruined castles, waterfalls, and secluded, wooded valleys, places of legend where dwelt the ancients, the druids, the fairy folk. Beautiful places in which you could lose yourself forever if you wanted. And in his dream, Harry could see all of these places, from that distant beach with the horses galloping into the distance, to that valley, to that thundering waterfall, and in all of them he could see himself with his parents.  
  
And at first, when he saw these visions, he was a baby, being held in his parents' arms, then a young child, and then an older child. Then he could see himself walking along that same beach, clad in a rough woollen shirt and capacious trousers, his hair whipped by the breeze, his bare toes digging into the damp sand as the water rushed up and over his feet. On his arm was a girl whose face his dreams did not allow him to see. She had long hair, and wore a dress like his Mother's, but Harry was looking out to sea, and did not look at her. But he could feel her, walking so close they were touching, their arms interlinked, her head resting on his shoulder, and he felt older, stronger, happier.  
  
He saw himself again, this time standing on a cliff top, wrapped in a black cloak, and fastened across the front with a brass clasp in the shape of a Gryffindor lion. And again the girl was with him, the very same one, and he could see her face now. She looked like Hermione, just ... older, in some way. He tried to speak to her, but the words would not come. But he didn't mind, for they just stood there, on the very edge of England, looking down at the birds flocking around the cliff, at the white topped breakers hurling themselves at its base, and far away, in the distance, the sun, rising over the horizon, casting the sky in a beautiful light, shimmering on the sea.  
  
Now he was an old man, still standing on the cliff, this time a staff, gnarled and twisted bearing his weight, and now it was night-time, but it was clear and the sea was calm, and in his free hand he held a lantern that cast light over the scene, and he could sense the presence of others, children, close by him. The moon was riding high above them in the sky, and the stars were twinkling, and he was showing the children the constellations ...  
  
And then he woke up, and every time he wanted so badly to hold onto the images in his mind, to capture them, but he knew that he could not, and then as the days wore on, the images faded, and he knew he would have to wait until next the dream recurred to recapture the moments. And for a minute or two, he sat in bed, crying in frustration and happiness. The dream seemed so calm, and the people in it so at ease. He wanted to live there, and to never come back.  
  
**************  
  
Another week passed, and the weather grew perceptibly colder. The night of Monday, November the 27th was so cold that Hogwarts woke up on Monday morning to find a blanket of snow two feet deep covering the grounds and castle. That morning, at breakfast, there was a palpable sense of excitement in the Great Hall, and even Harry felt himself getting caught up in it too. The teachers obviously sensed the excitement, for their lessons that day all seemed to overrun a bit, and there was very nearly a mutiny when Hagrid, despite the perfect conditions, (it was gloriously sunny) moved their Care of Magical Creatures Class inside.  
  
Still, if Harry had been looking forward to messing about in the snow, he got his chance that afternoon when school was over. Quidditch practice.  
  
Harry came down from the castle at about twenty past four. Darkness had already fallen, but the floodlights had been switched on, and the light around the arena was so bright it looked like daylight.  
  
He found the rest of the team, save Ron, having an energetic snowball fight on the touchline. They were all already changed into their robes, clutching their brooms, and despite the fact that it was minus four degrees, looked very warm indeed. They yelled at Harry to get a move on, and he ducked into the changing rooms as several very large snowballs came winging his way.  
  
Ron was sitting on the long, wooden bench that ran all the way around the boys' changing room, pulling on several pairs of socks. Quidditch players normally wore a pair of shorts and if it was particularly chilly, a T-shirt under their robes, but Ron, who normally was very good at withstanding the cold, had put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and a large orange Chudley Cannons fleece under his.  
  
"What kept you?" he asked, as Harry dumped his kitbag down on one of the benches, and began to peel off his school robes.  
  
"Had to see McGonagall about the Transfiguration essay," said Harry, which was only a white lie ... actually he had been talking to Ginny, who had returned to Hogwarts from her convalescence only a week earlier, and was having trouble readjusting. He had completely lost track of time.  
  
Ron raised his eyebrows suspiciously, but said nothing. "Well, hurry up then," he said. "Want me to wait?"  
  
It was Harry's turn to raise his eyebrows.  
  
"Uh ... in case you want company," added Ron, hastily.  
  
"No, it's fine," said Harry. "Aren't you going to have difficulty flying in that lot?" he asked Ron, pulling on his shorts.  
  
"Well, if somebody had had the forethought to cancel practice tonight," said Ron, jokingly. "And yes, it's going to be bloody impossible ... but at least I won't be up there freezing my nuts off."  
  
"Yeah, I suppose," agreed Harry, feeling goose pimples rising across his chest and back as he delved inside his kit bag for a long-sleeved T-shirt. The changing rooms were heated, but somebody had apparently turned off the radiators. Harry struggled into his T-shirt, then picked up his robes, and pulled them on. He fastened the belt across the front, and adjusted them so that the Gryffindor badge was showing properly, shouldered his Firebolt and followed Ron out onto the pitch.  
  
The others were already pelting up and down the pitch in a desperate attempt to keep warm. Upon sighting Harry, they slowed their broomsticks to a halt, and descended gracefully to the ground where he and Ron were standing.  
  
"Evening, Boss," chirped Katie Bell, rubbing her gloved hands together gleefully.  
  
"All right," said Harry. "Um ... I think we need to do defensive flying tonight. That was something Ron said after the Slytherin match. We're not working as a team where it counts; stopping the other team from having a sporting chance to make the score line respectable."  
  
The other team members smiled respectfully at his joke. The match against Slytherin had been a walkover, but that had been primarily because Draco Malfoy hadn't been the best choice for Captain ... and his line up left a lot to be desired.  
  
Colin Creevey, the new Gryffindor Keeper, spoke up. "Um, Harry. Can I try taking some penalty shots, too? I wasn't too good when we gave away that foul to Slytherin," he glared at Fred and George, whose fault it had been. They'd flown into one of the Slytherin Chasers, a burly Lower Sixth Year called Quentin Montague-Blythe from both sides, on purpose ... in their own goal area.  
  
"Fair enough," said Harry. "Oh, Fred, we reckon you need to work on cobbing people without making it look *that* obvious."  
  
There was a loud guffaw from Alicia Spinnet at that point. Fred gave her a very hurt look, and she shut up.  
  
"Okay," said Harry. "Let's start up ..." his words trailed off into the ether.  
  
"What's up, Harry?" asked George.  
  
Harry shook his head. He hadn't actually thought about that strange man he had seen for the briefest of instants, over at the tarn in the Forbidden Forest the previous week, for a couple of days, and for a moment, he wasn't entirely sure whether or not he was imagining things.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Harry blinked again, and rubbed his eyes just to make sure. Sure enough, standing at the far end of the pitch was the brown haired man again. He appeared to be watching them with interest.  
  
"Who's he?" asked Katie, spotting him as well.  
  
"I don't know," said Harry.  
  
"Perhaps he's some pervert up from the village," said Alicia. "Ew, yuck," she added, at the very thought.  
  
"There're wards up to stop that kind of thing," said Ron, absent-mindedly, sounding for a moment eerily like Hermione.  
  
The man was clad in the same flowing gown, his arms were folded, and his feet and ankles were blue from the cold. The wind whipped at his clothes. He looked oddly like some kind of prophet, on the verge of delivering a sermon that would change the course of history. He seemed to be aware that the entire team was looking at him, but this did not faze him in the slightest. He merely stood there. Watching. Waiting for something.  
  
"We'd better shoo him off," said George, talking common-sense. "Dumbledore will do his nut if he finds out there's weird people wandering round the grounds."  
  
He started off across the pitch. At the sudden flurry of movement, the man took fright, and disappeared into the darkness at speed. George stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
"He seems to have got the message," he said, turning round to face the team again. "We can carry on."  
  
A strange chill swept down Harry's spine.  
  
**************  
  
Harry was not especially worried by the sudden reappearance of the strange man. He figured he was probably not a threat to him. After all, Harry reasoned, if he had been out to kill him, he had missed two chances, and on one of those occasions, he, Harry, had been unarmed and alone. Probably, he thought, he was just a harmless nutter.  
  
After practice was over, Ron and Harry wandered back up to the castle via the stable blocks. Once, these large, solid stone walled buildings had housed the horses and other creatures, back when Hogwarts had been a working castle, before it's scholarly days. Since then, they had become largely defunct, although Hagrid had been doing them up in his spare time to house some of the more impressive magical creatures, and although still quite run down, they were not nearly as bad as they were rumoured to have been in the past.  
  
Upon their return from Naxcivan, riding the dragons Bellerophon and Hermes, the two specimens had been living in the large, central part of the stable complex that had once been a grain store. Harry and Ron quite regularly came up to see them, partly because they knew neither dragon got to fly as often as they would like, and partly because both boys were absolutely fascinated with them.  
  
As they approached, they could hear the sound of wheezing and coughing coming from one of the blocks. It was the sound of a dragon in distress, or at least, a dragon with a nasty cold.  
  
They rounded the corner, and pushed open the heavy oak doors. Bellerophon the dragon was lying, curled up on the straw covered floor, his breathing raspy, his scaly skin, normally a silvery black colour, from which his species, the Caucasian Black, got its name, was discoloured. He looked ill. As Harry and Ron shut the door, he opened one beady eye and looked at them.  
  
Then he coughed. His breath stank of rotting meat. Harry wondered what on earth Hagrid had been feeding the poor beasts.  
  
"Greetings, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley," said Bellerophon, lazily. His normal gruff and noble tone muted and croaky.  
  
"Hello," said Harry. "Are you not feeling well?"  
  
Bellerophon shook his head ... his forked tongue shot out, and tasted the air, and he slowly unfurled and ruffled his vast wings.  
  
"No," he growled. "I have a horrible cold. The English weather does not suit me. I need the sun on my body, dry air in my lungs. It is too humid here, too cold and too humid."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Harry, gingerly.  
  
"It isn't your fault," said Bellerophon. "Tell me, how is Draco?"  
  
"Hasn't he been to see you?" asked Harry. "That's odd."  
  
"Not for a week or more," said Bellerophon. "I was enquiring after his health. Perhaps he is ill too. If the Dragon Rider becomes ill, it is often not unusual for the dragon to fall ill too."  
  
"I hadn't noticed anything," said Harry. "Perhaps he's feeling a bit bunged up as well."  
  
Bellerophon nodded slowly and gracefully. Then he stretched out one of his forelegs, and pawed the air, his claws, so sharp and so large they could have easily disembowelled you, swishing. Harry and Ron drew back.  
  
"It is possible he too is ill," growled Bellerophon. "We must wish for a speedy recovery," he added.  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah, of course," he said, distractedly.  
  
"You sound, distracted, Harry Potter," growled Bellerophon, right on cue. "Something troubles you, I think?"  
  
Harry looked up, caught Bellerophon's bright yellow eye, and nodded. "Yes," he said. "There were a couple of things," he said.  
  
"Dumbledore has hired you a psychiatrist," said Bellerophon. "Have you sought her counsel?"  
  
"Sinead?" asked Harry. "Yes ... she's okay. She has some funny ideas though. I've been seeing her once a week since we got back."  
  
"Nothing useful has come of these talks?" demanded Bellerophon, pawing once more at the air. He let out a loud, foghorn like moan that caused both Ron and Harry to clutch their hands to their ears. "My wings hurt," he grumbled.  
  
"Some useful things," said Harry. "I suppose. But I still don't feel any better, if you see what I mean?"  
  
Bellerophon nodded. "Often the counsel of the wise is no more valuable than the counsel of the fool," he said. "You are wise, I think, to seek the counsel of dragons, Harry Potter."  
  
"Not especially," answered Harry. "I mean, I wasn't asking you to work everything out for me ..."  
  
"Nor should you expect me to," growled Bellerophon, the faintest hint of a chuckle creeping into his voice. "When humans become sick within their minds, as I think you have done, there is little a dragon's counsel can bring that is of benefit to the situation. Nevertheless, if you want to talk to me about it, I will listen ..."  
  
"That's very kind of you," said Harry. "Thanks, I mean."  
  
"I have nothing better to do," said Bellerophon. "As I said, Draco does not seem to make the time to fly us any more. I rather suspect he has become bored with his new toys. Though wise in many ways, Draco retains the ways of the human child."  
  
Ron snickered.  
  
"Can't you just fly yourself?" asked Harry.  
  
"If I were a wild dragon, then yes," said Bellerophon. "But I was hatched from an egg, and have known naught but the company of humans my entire life. It would not feel right."  
  
Harry knew, and so did Ron from bitter experience, that dragons maintained a very noble outlook on life. They were very chivalrous beasts, with well developed senses of right and wrong, and though capable of acts of great evil, they were not in themselves bad creatures. The fact that Bellerophon thought flying himself would not feel right made perfect sense to both the boys.  
  
"I should like to see Draco soon," said Bellerophon. "Tell him, if you seek him, that I enquired after him."  
  
"Of course," said Harry. He hesitated for a minute, then said. "Bellerophon ... can I ask you something?"  
  
"Evidently, you just have," said Bellerophon, his manner at times irritatingly like that of certain teachers Harry knew. "You may ask me another question if you so desire."  
  
"Um ... you know how you can, sort of, see stuff. See who's bad, and who's not, and stuff, and sense things?"  
  
"I know," said Bellerophon. "You seek to know your enemies before they know you, Harry Potter? I knew you were wise, but that displays sensible foresight. Who do you desire me to pass judgment on?"  
  
"Well, there's this man," said Harry. "I've seen him a couple of times. Once he was in the Forbidden Forest, and he was watching me, and when I tried to speak to him, he ran off ..."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me that?" asked Ron. Harry waved him into silence.  
  
"Then he showed up again at Quidditch practice just now," said Harry, ignoring Ron. "Well, about two hours ago now. He doesn't speak, and when we tried to get close to him, he ran away."  
  
"The man you speak of," began Bellerophon, sounding pensive. "He has a sickness, a great sickness of the mind. Many years ago he was tortured, tortured unimaginably by those who sought to destroy your Ministry of Magic," he growled.  
  
"You mean Voldemort?" asked Harry. Ron flinched and looked away  
  
"Don't say that name," he snarled, through gritted teeth.  
  
"Not by Voldemort himself," growled Bellerophon, causing Ron to grimace again. "But the torture drove him insane. He has not spoken for more than ten harvests, and nor will he speak. However, he means no harm. He is looking for you, Harry Potter."  
  
Harry froze to the spot. Whenever people went looking for him, it was generally a bad thing. "What does he want?"  
  
"He has vital information to pass on to you," growled Bellerophon. "Seek him, Harry Potter, for he can help you greatly in these troubled times."  
  
"I ... see," said Harry, vaguely, for he was feeling rather strange all of a sudden.  
  
"It is not he you should be worried about," growled Bellerophon. "There is another, closer to you than this man, whose company you should avoid, for he brings naught but trouble, and he tells you naught but lies."  
  
"Who is he?" asked Harry, who had had enough bizarre coded warnings in his lifetime to last him a ... well, a lifetime.  
  
"That I cannot say," growled Bellerophon, in reply. "But you must be on your guard against false friends, and those who bring the means of escape will also bring destruction and sorrow upon you. Be warned, Harry Potter."  
  
Harry suddenly felt funny inside, and wanted nothing more than to leave the stables behind and go back to the castle, where it was safe and bright and warm. The stables were suddenly cold and oppressive and full of bad things ... things with teeth, and such. He felt dizzy, his head seemed to be spinning round and round, and his vision was distorted. He turned to look at Ron, but it was like looking at a reflection on the back of a polished spoon. Ron's face seemed to lengthen before his very eyes.  
  
"You okay, Harry?" he heard Ron say, a voice that seemed distant, as though it was not altogether there ... coming from another time, and a far off place.  
  
"Yeah, fine," said Harry. He was not especially surprised to hear that his voice sounded exactly the same.  
  
"Take him to the castle," growled Bellerophon. "He is weak, and he must sleep. Troubled times are upon us, Ron Weasley. You too should be on your guard. As things stand, you have a mortal enemy."  
  
Ron ignored Bellerophon's warning, and gently clasped Harry round the shoulders. "Come on," he whispered in Harry's ear. "We'll put you to bed. You're freezing."  
  
He began to walk Harry slowly out of the stable, Harry's footsteps faltering on the rough stone floor, Ron's hands around him, guiding his steps. As they reached the door, Ron turned.  
  
"Thanks, Bellerophon," he smiled, but it was a forced smile, an unnatural smile. Harry did not notice it.  
  
"A pleasure. Guard your friend well, Ron Weasley," growled Bellerophon, misreading the smile on Ron's face. "He needs guarding. He too is sick, and this sickness cannot be easily alleviated."  
  
Ron nodded. "We'll come down and see you some other time. We'll try and bring Draco."  
  
"That would be nice," growled Bellerophon. "Goodbye, human boys."  
  
Ron propped Harry, now pale and sweating, up against the wall outside, and closed the door. Snow was once again falling from the sky, white, fluffy flakes drifting lazily down from on high.  
  
"Come on, you," said Ron, seizing Harry, who was listing badly to port, and propelling him upright again, the two boys set off for the castle.  
  
**************  
  
Perhaps it was the cold, perhaps it was being outside for so long, or the snow, or perhaps just the flu that was rumoured to be going around, but Harry's condition was so bad by the time they reached Gryffindor Tower that Ron ordered him to skip his homework, and helped him upstairs to bed. Then he went back downstairs to fetch hot chocolate, leaving Harry on his own, in his pyjamas at half past six, staring at the ceiling and listening to the noise coming from the Common Room.  
  
He didn't know what had come over him. He had suddenly felt very sick, very cold, and very scared all over. Even now, back in bed with a 'Herbert's All Night Long Hot Water Bottle' at his feet, he was shivering uncontrollably. His throat felt dry, his vision seemed blurred, and his head was pounding. He looked at his hands. The palms looked like bits of salami sausage; all white dappled bits on red. He fell asleep before Ron came back with the drinks, and that night was the first night for some time that his dream did not come back to him.  
  
**************  
  
Come morning, Harry decamped to the bathroom, where he spent twenty minutes evacuating the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl, whilst all the time little black spots danced in front of his eyes. Then he went back to bed, where he stayed for the rest of the day. Madam Pomfrey was fetched up from the Hospital Wing, and diagnosed nothing more than a mild case of Dragon Fever, which was caught through contact with infected specimens, and was a very fast acting bacteria. She left him some kind of preparation made from the bark of a yew tree, which Harry was meant to pour boiling water over, and then to drink the resultant brew, which wasn't very nice. Actually, he vomited it straight back up again.  
  
However, it did mean that by the evening, he was up and walking around Gryffindor Tower in his dressing gown. Fred and George tried to cheer him up by showing off their signed contracts, which they were hiding from Mrs. Weasley on pain of decapitation, or at the very least, withdrawal of bathroom privileges. Harry waved them aside, preferring to sit on his own in his favourite armchair, rather, his new favourite armchair, as his old favourite armchair had been appropriated by First Years, and he didn't really have the heart to tell them to sod off.  
  
He was mildly surprised when, at about six o'clock, just as he was debating whether or not to get dressed and go down for dinner, or to mope about upstairs being pathetic, Hermione dashed into the Common Room, wrapped up like some kind of Arctic explorer, took the stairs up to the girls' dormitories two at a time, and then reappeared two minutes later holding a notebook. She gave him a smile, before running out again. Harry merely assumed that she had had one of her sudden flashes of inspiration ... which generally involved a hurried movement in the general direction of the Library.  
  
It became obvious that she had not been going to the Library when she returned with Draco, two minutes later. They both sought Harry out immediately, and came over to sit with him.  
  
"Um, hello," said Draco, quietly. He looked, thought Harry, a lot meeker, quieter, altogether more subdued than he usually did.  
  
"What do you want?" asked Harry bitterly, finding it hard to be cold with Draco anymore, which was annoying, because he badly wanted to be. What had transpired in Naxcivan may have brought them closer together, or, better put, got them talking like civilised human beings, but it hadn't stopped him from finding Draco very, very irritating indeed.  
  
"Got something here for you," said Draco.  
  
"Oh, goody," said Harry, without enthusiasm. "You're always bringing me presents. First the Christening Mug and now this."  
  
If Draco saw the joke, he didn't show it.  
  
"Nah, it's a diary," he said.  
  
"Yes, I can see that. Thank you, Malfoy," said Harry sarcastically. It was indeed a diary, bound in red leather, with a ribbon to mark the page you were on. He turned it over and over in his hands. "Um, what do I want with it exactly?"  
  
"It isn't yours then?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Never seen it before in my life," he said truthfully. "I don't keep a diary," he lied.  
  
"But it has your name in it," said Draco.  
  
Harry opened the diary. Inside the front cover was a list of names and addresses, scribbled down in someone's untidy scrawl. They were names and addresses of people in London, and none of the names meant anything to him.  
  
"That isn't even my writing," he said in an annoyed tone. "Why did you bring me this?"  
  
Draco took the diary back from Harry, and took out a piece of yellowing paper. There was writing on it. It looked like a set of instructions. "I meant here," he said, as though that had been obvious all along.  
  
"Don't forget Time Turner, leave dud in Charles P's top left drawer for Dumbledore to find. Harry will be at St. Mungo's visiting the boy. Do not speak to the boy (this is important). House Elf will bring you back when finished," he read selected bits of it out loud. "Does this make any sense to either of you?"  
  
Hermione and Draco both shook their heads at the same time.  
  
"Means nothing to me," said Harry. He turned it over. "Look, there's a letter on the back."  
  
"How come I didn't spot that?" asked Draco bitterly.  
  
"Read it, Harry," said Hermione.  
  
Harry coughed, took a deep breath, and began. "Dear Albus, Aberforth, Algernon, Emeritus, Charles and Mary. We're going home now. We just thought we should leave you a note to say thank you for everything you did for us," he read. "If it wasn't for you, we'd be stuck here. God speed to you all, best of luck, and maybe we'll see you all again someday. Yours, the Gang."  
  
"Make any sense?" asked Draco.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Why should it do?" he asked. "It's just a note ... looks like someone was writing to Dumbledore and some other people."  
  
Hermione took it from him. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd swear that was my handwriting."  
  
"It can't be," said Draco.  
  
"Of course it bloody can't," said Hermione, frustrated. "I didn't sodding write it, did I?"  
  
"No," said Draco. "Look at the date. December 26th, 1941."  
  
"What's it doing in this diary then?" asked Hermione. Harry flicked through the pages. There were scrawled comments, notes and appointments in a hand he did not recognise.  
  
"Well, the fact that this is a diary for 1941 might have something to do with that," said Harry.  
  
Hermione seized it from him. "Let me see that," she said. She opened a page at random. "December 6th, 1941," she read. "Moved Charles' files to new office in Ministry. Charles off to Europe again tomorrow. Told him to be bloody careful, and he told me not to be a miserable bastard. On the other hand, I get his broomstick if he doesn't come back this time. Charming," she added. Then she went on. "December 7th , 1941. Emeritus rang to say something bloody odd happening in Alnwick but we got cut off due to bombing. More spies caught on the news. Saw Charles off to France from Kenley aerodrome. I know it's a living but I worry about the poor sod. Still, he gets well paid for it. Got home to find Hortense waving Evening Prophet at me and babbling about the Americans. Seems they've been bombed into the war at long last. Perhaps we'll get some of those new wands the Ministry is on about off the Lend Lease mob. Would be damn useful. Listened to Churchill and Roosevelt on wireless. Bed. No bombers tonight so didn't have to use Andersen for a change. Hurray!"  
  
"Where did you get this?" asked Harry.  
  
"Found it," shrugged Draco.  
  
"And where did you find it?" prompted Harry.  
  
"Woods," said Draco. "I sat on it. I went back to that little lake in the forest to contemplate the serene mysteries of life ..."  
  
"Spare me the sodding love and peace mantras," snapped Harry. Hermione handed him the diary.  
  
"Okay, I sat down on a rock, and I sat on that. It has reinforced metal corners, you see. Very painful when they get stuck up your ..."  
  
Hermione coughed loudly.  
  
"And why," asked Harry, setting it down on the arm of his chair, "did you bring it to us?"  
  
"Ugh?" went Draco, looking rather confused at this.  
  
"Why bring it to us?" asked Harry. "Why not show it to one of your Slytherin pals? You could have had a good laugh at it and then burned it ceremoniously. That's what your type is into, isn't it, book burnings?"  
  
Draco looked surprised at this sudden outburst. So did Hermione.  
  
"What do ... what do you mean, my type?"  
  
Harry sneered. "I saw those books back in your castle, Malfoy. What was that one Hermione said? Mein Kampf?" Anger was beginning to boil up inside him.  
  
"That wasn't mine!" retorted Draco. "My ... my Father ..." he broke off.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Hermione gave Harry a very disapproving look. Harry looked up at the other boy, and could suddenly tell that what he was about to say was causing him great pain.  
  
"My Father wasn't a very nice man," Draco stammered. "I told you all those things about him, and neither of you believed me?"  
  
"I didn't think ..." began Harry.  
  
"It's okay," said Draco. "People forget stuff. And I saw those books too. Discourses on Inherent Magical Racial Superiority. Vile, hateful tracts. But they weren't mine. That wasn't me you saw there. That was my Father."  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry stuttered gently. Draco looked up. His hair was once more in need of a cut, and strands of it were falling across his face.  
  
"It's very hard to lose both your parents at once, you know," Draco said.  
  
"Um, I know."  
  
"No, with all due respect, Harry," said Draco calmly, "you don't know. You can never know, because you never really knew your parents. I knew mine, and ... and horrible as they were, I still can't stand losing them. I still need them, and you've learned to live without yours. I'm sorry, but that's the truth from where I see it. And I don't need people telling me they're sorry ... I'm sorry."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"I shouldn't have bothered you. I should just have left the diary where I found it. I just thought you'd be interested in it. And the Slytherins would have burned it. I didn't think that was right. Didn't seem right. Probably never seemed right," Draco looked up again. He was clasping the leather bound tome in his hand, and holding it out to Harry.  
  
Harry took it.  
  
"It didn't seem right to burn it," repeated Draco.  
  
"Did you see anybody else?" asked Harry, his thoughts drawn inexorably back to the strange man who had been hanging around their Quidditch practice.  
  
Hermione cottoned on immediately. "Ooh, Harry ... you don't think it has anything to do with that weirdo Ron told me about do you?"  
  
"There're weirdoes running about in the Forbidden Forest?" said Draco. "Why was I not informed?"  
  
"Aren't there always?" said Harry darkly. "I just ... saw this bloke in the forest about a week ago, but when I tried to talk to him, he ran off. He showed up again at Quidditch practice yesterday evening, and George chased him off. That's all. Perhaps it's his. We should go and find him, maybe."  
  
"Not now," said Hermione. "It's far too late. Besides, it's pitch black outside, you won't get ten yards once you're in the forest."  
  
Harry sighed. "Obviously," he said through gritted teeth, "I was not talking about dropping everything and going now, any fool could have spotted that," he was wondering also whether or not he should tell Hermione what he had been told by the dragon, Bellerophon  
  
Hermione looked slightly hurt, but said nothing.  
  
"Why did Ron tell you anyway?" asked Harry, all of a sudden.  
  
"Ron has a right to tell me what he wants," said Hermione, imperiously. "I don't see why it's such a big deal. Anyway, I notice *you* didn't tell me. I *thought* I was your friend, as well."  
  
To which poor Harry could think of nothing to say.  
  
**************  
  
The next afternoon, during their lunch break, Harry and Hermione, having left Ron, who had managed to get himself a detention (at long last) from Professor Trelawney for laughing too much at something Harry had said, headed down towards the Lake. Neither of them had any real intention of going anywhere, Harry just said he felt like walking, and Hermione had agreed to accompany him, secretly thinking she should be on her guard should Harry try to run away again. It was quite fun being his chaperone, she thought, as Harry strode ahead, kicking up fallen leaves and talking animatedly about Quidditch. It appeared Chudley were finally breaking their century's run of bad luck, and had just moved up to second place in the League Table after beating the Wimbourne Wasps.  
  
Hermione's interest in Quidditch was about as minimal as you could get living amongst people who were all so bloody obsessed with it. But it was nice to see Harry pleased about something. Indeed, it was just nice to see him grinning for a change.  
  
It dawned on her that she had been asked a question.  
  
"Sorry, Harry?"  
  
Harry turned to face her, his face flushed red with cold; he looked healthy, more like his normal self. Hermione had her fingers crossed that they were finally getting over all the upsets of the past few weeks.  
  
"If you're not going to listen to me," began Harry.  
  
"No, no, fire away. I was lost in my thoughts," said Hermione.  
  
"Evidently. I asked if you thought our chances were good for Saturday?"  
  
"What's happening Saturday?" asked Hermione. "Gryffindor aren't playing anybody, are they?"  
  
"We already played this term's match," said Harry in an annoyed tone of voice. "It's Ravenclaw against Hufflepuff in a couple of weeks. I was asking if you thought the Cannons had any chance against Wigtown."  
  
"I've never even ... Wigtown are meant to be good, right?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Fifteenth in the League," said Harry.  
  
"Shouldn't it be a walkover then?" asked Hermione, unsure of what to say.  
  
Harry huffed. "Oh, you're useless," he said without malice.  
  
Hermione grinned. "Thanks a lot," she said, scurrying to catch up with him. Harry misinterpreted this as an attack, turned on his heels and fled.  
  
For a few seconds, Hermione just stood there, hands on hips, watching him run. Eventually, after he had stopped, a couple of hundred yards or so away, she called out. "Don't dare make me chase you, Harry Potter!"  
  
Harry shouted something back, and continued running. With a muffled curse, Hermione gave chase, her robes dragging in the snow.  
  
"You've done it this time, midget!"  
  
Harry darted behind one of the trees in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione stopped just short of it. No way was she going in there. Creepy things dwell within, she thought.  
  
"Harry! Say you didn't just run into the woods!"  
  
There was no reply. Cautiously, Hermione took a step nearer the tree. As she approached, she thought she heard something rustling. Gingerly, she reached out, and lightly touched the trunk. Then she peered round it.  
  
Harry had gone.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
Feeling slightly panicked now, Hermione walked round the entire tree. The rustling sound came again.  
  
"Where are you? Is this a trick?"  
  
Rustle, rustle.  
  
She walked round the tree again. Again, the rustling could be heard.  
  
And then someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder.  
  
Hermione let out a shriek of terror, jumped a foot in the air, and turned round.  
  
"You evil little bastard!" she yelled.  
  
Harry grinned, and then, before Hermione could grab him and hang him up from something, like a low branch, he had disappeared again, this time running off into the forest.  
  
He probably thinks he'll get a kiss if he's obnoxious enough, Hermione thought to herself. "I'm not following you into those woods, Harry!"  
  
No reply.  
  
"Come out now, you great dimmock!"  
  
And then, the most bloodcurdling, piercing scream she had ever heard hit her ears. It was coming from within the forest.  
  
"Oh Christ. Harry!"  
  
Mere seconds later, there was a crashing sound, footsteps thudding on roots and then Harry emerged from the gloom, his face scratched by a low branch and bleeding slightly. He was hyperventilating.  
  
Hermione lunged forwards. "Oh God, Harry. Breathe, breathe, okay. Don't breathe quite like that. Breathe more calmly. Calmer than that."  
  
Harry nodded, coughed and spluttered as Hermione took him round the shoulders and lowered him to the ground at the base of one of the trees. He sat down gratefully on the ground. His breathing began to calm down, and he was able to say. "Body ... dead ... in the woods ..."  
  
"There's a body?"  
  
"S'what I said," gasped Harry, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly.  
  
"W ... who?" stammered Hermione quickly.  
  
"Don't ... don't ... don't know," breathed Harry. "But dead."  
  
"I'd better go take a look," said Hermione. But Harry was on his feet immediately, blocking her way.  
  
"Don't. I don't want you to see it. Go and get Sirius, or someone. Get anybody!"  
  
"You'll be okay?" asked Hermione.  
  
Harry nodded quickly. "I'll stay here ... mark spot," he said. "*Go* ... find someone!"  
  
Hermione sat him down again, and made sure he was okay. "I'll send someone down," she said. "Be a couple of minutes. Be right back. Okay?"  
  
Harry nodded his agreement. "Hurry."  
  
Hermione turned, and started to run back up to the castle. She hadn't gone far when, quite by chance, she passed Ron and Sirius, who were walking briskly towards her. Sirius raised his hand.  
  
"Hey, Hermione!"  
  
She stopped running, and waited as they came over.  
  
"Thought you were with Harry," said Sirius meaningfully. Each of them had agreed, in confidence to the others, or rather more accurately, Sirius had ordered them both to keep a close eye on Harry.  
  
"I ... I was," said Hermione, struggling to breathe as her heart rate returned to normal.  
  
"Why'd you leave him ..." Ron began, but Sirius silenced him.  
  
"We found something ..." Hermione began. "There's something in the woods. Harry says it's a body."  
  
"Dead?"  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"Oh Christ. Did you see it?" Sirius asked.  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Harry wouldn't let me," she said. "And I didn't want to see it anyway. He came out of the forest all shaking and pale."  
  
"Okay, okay," Sirius was saying. "Hermione, go back up to the castle. Get someone, I don't care who ... as long as it isn't Snape or Filch. Find Dumbledore, he'll know what to do. Ron, come with me, I may need some help."  
  
Sirius and Ron continued down towards the Forbidden Forest. As they approached, Sirius spotted Harry, who was crouched at the foot of a tree, hugging his knees to his chest. They dropped down next to him.  
  
"Are you okay?" Sirius asked. "What happened?"  
  
Harry pointed wordlessly into the forest.  
  
"Stay here with him," said Sirius. "I'll go check it out."  
  
He started to walk off into the forest. For a minute or so, Ron just stood there, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, regarding Harry closely.  
  
Then Harry said, "Sod this, I'm going to see what he's up to."  
  
He got to his feet, and before Ron could do anything to stop him, had followed the path Sirius had taken in between the trees. Ron sighed, and walked off after him. Dead bodies in the woods indeed!  
  
Keeping Harry in sight, he clambered carefully over the twisted mass of brambles and hawthorn that seemed to grow in great clumps round about knee height. He heard a ripping sound as something snared on the hem of his robes, then the sound of Harry's voice, drifting between the dark, forbidding tree trunks.  
  
"Have you found it?"  
  
And Sirius' reply of, "I thought I told you to stay outside!"  
  
Ron lost concentration, tripped on a tree root, and went flat on his face, wincing with pain as he whacked his elbow on the offending plant. He looked up to find himself on the fringes of a small clearing, by the look of the surrounding trees, quite deep inside the forest. Harry and Sirius were standing there, and something was lying on the floor, shrouded in what looked like a white robe.  
  
Ron clambered to his feet. "I thought you might need some help," he said, by way of explanation.  
  
"We probably do," said Sirius. "Take a look."  
  
Sirius leant over the body. Now that the corpse had been moved into the meagre light afforded by a break in the tree cover, and turned the right way up, it was immediately obvious to both Harry and Ron just who it was.  
  
"That bloke who was hanging around the Quidditch pitch," said Ron, staring at the lifeless, mangled form of what had once been a human man. Harry realised, with a jolt that this was the second truly dead body he had ever seen. He felt his stomach turning over.  
  
And the body was mangled too ... almost beyond recognition. The white robe was bespattered with caked blood. It had been torn in several places, and as Sirius brushed the robes aside, Harry and Ron stepped back in horror.  
  
Where his stomach should have been was an empty, gaping hole ... bits of bone were poking into it, splintered clean in half. He had been disembowelled ... eviscerated completely, and the cause of death was sticking upright in the putrefying flesh like a dagger; a long, sharp pincer, that had broken off when the spiders had attacked him.  
  
Ron turned away, and Harry heard his footsteps rustling in the leaves, and then the sound of him being very sick indeed.  
  
Sirius grimaced, seized the mandible, or the pincer, or whatever it was around the top end, and pulled it out.  
  
"Poor bastard," he said.  
  
Harry could only stare in abject horror. Nothing he had ever seen before had been quite so disgusting, quite so putrid or foul. He heard Ron retching again.  
  
"I knew there were spiders in the Forest," said Sirius coldly. "But I never thought they'd kill a man."  
  
"I wonder who he was," said Harry.  
  
Sirius put his arm companionably around Harry's shoulders. "They'll probably want to do a post-mortem," he said. "We may find out then. He'll have dental records and stuff."  
  
Harry shook his head. He was wondering if he should tell Sirius about the diary he had found. The funny thing was, this man did not look nearly old enough to have written it himself. Indeed, he looked as though he had been in his mid to late thirties; like Sirius.  
  
Sirius dropped to his knees next to the corpse, and brushed the flimsy white material of the robes aside.  
  
"Seen something?" asked Harry, taking a step closer.  
  
Sirius nodded. Closing his eyes, he stuck his hand into the man's pockets, and withdrew a wad of paper, held together with a shiny metal clasp, upon which was engraved the acronym 'OOTP' in florid script  
  
"OOTP?" read Harry. "What's that all about."  
  
Sirius nodded grimly. "It's an acronym," he said. "We all had one of these. It was standard issue. Like having an inkpot with a Hogwarts crest on it."  
  
"You all had one what?" asked Harry. Sirius was turning the clasp over and over in his hands, regarding it as one might regard a long lost friend who had just turned up in a very unexpected place.  
  
"One of these," repeated Sirius. "It was just to keep money and papers in order, like a bulldog clip. MOMPL. It was ... a very select group of trained men and women, working on behalf of the Ministry during the Troubles. I believe it was disbanded some years ago; Fudge thought there was no use for it, as I understand ... the service managed to discredit itself."  
  
"How did it manage that?" asked Harry.  
  
"One of its members betrayed two of the others," said Sirius, quietly. "And an innocent man spent twelve years in Azkaban because of it."  
  
Harry understood. "Ah ... I see," he said. "My Mum and Dad were spies, then?"  
  
"Spying barely figured ... it was ... something rather different," said Sirius, his voice taking on a far off tone. "But it means this man was one of them. And I think I know who. If I'm not mistaken," he pulled the wad of papers free from the silver clasp, which he pocketed. "These are his WIPs."  
  
"His whips?" asked Harry. "You are completely out of your tree now, aren't you?"  
  
"Not at all," said Sirius, quietly. "WIPs are Wizarding Identity Papers. We all had to carry them. Photo ID, name and address and two references."  
  
"You needed identity papers?" asked Harry, incredulously.  
  
Sirius nodded. "Of course," he said. "For about four years from 1977 onwards, the Ministry, any Aurors, any MLES Officers had the right to stop and search any wizard or witch they wanted. It was supposed to make sure Voldemort's activities could be kept in check. The Ministry was keeping tabs on everyone, monitoring movement and so on. If anybody tried to move around Britain without their papers, it was a week in Azkaban. So you damn well made sure you were carrying your papers. Of course, the Death Eaters carried their papers too, so it kind of rendered the system useless."  
  
He unfolded the papers with the air of a man uncovering a priceless archaeological treasure.  
  
"As I thought," he said. "Harry, this man's name is Frank Longbottom."  
  
He showed Harry the papers. There was a photo of a young looking man on it ... very obviously the round faced man who was lying on the muddy ground at their feet. Could that really be Neville's Father?  
  
"That must be his diary I have," said Harry, without realising it. Sirius raised an eyebrow inquisitively.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"They ... Hermione and Draco, I mean, brought me a diary Draco found out here ... the other day," said Harry. "It must have belonged to him." He read the printed details on the papers. "Date of birth, August 3rd 1960, North Riding County Hospital, Harrogate, Yorkshire. Spouse and dependants ..." he trailed off. The name he was reading was, indeed, Neville's. "March 15th 1980," he read.  
  
"Look at the bottom," said Sirius.  
  
Two witnesses had signed and dated the papers. One of them was a name Harry had not heard of; Eric McKinnon, the other was his Father's; James Potter. The date was September 8th 1981.  
  
"Perhaps I should tell you the truth," said Sirius. He crouched down again by the corpse, removed his robe, and used them as a shroud to cover up Frank Longbottom's lifeless form. Then, Harry still clutching the yellowed identity papers, he led him away from the scene, and sat him down on a tree stump about twenty yards away. Ron followed them over, looking curious.  
  
"What is it?" asked Harry.  
  
"We left school in 1977," said Sirius. "There was a whole gang of us, and we were young, and full of ourselves, and we thought we could take on the world, and win. We thought we had a chance against Voldemort," Ron flinched, as he always did, at the sound of the name. Sirius was the only person Harry knew, aside from Dumbledore, who could say it without having palpitations. "We all knew there was going to be a war, and we were all eager to do our bit."  
  
His voice trailed off. "There were ten of us," he said, after a brief pause. "Ten in our year. Myself, your parents, Peter, Remus, a woman called Arabella Figg, two Ravenclaws, called Eric and Val McKinnon, they died. A Hufflepuff, whose name was Fred Burns, so did he, and another Gryffindor whom none of us knew that well. Her name was Anthea Spiggs. We all signed up for this thing. Dumbledore had had his eye on all of us, and he wanted to headhunt us for this new division he was setting up."  
  
"This OOTP thing, or MOMPL, or whatever it's called?" asked Ron.  
  
"Correct," said Sirius. "Utterly secret, highly confidential. The Last Line of Defence, they called us. We even had code names; we thought that was brilliant, we thought we were the mutt's nuts. I was Handel, your Dad was Elgar, your Mum was Mozart, and Remus was Bach. I think Peter was Puccini. Fred Burns was definitely Tchaikovsky ... Arabella was Beethoven, Anthea was Gershwin and Eric and Val were Gilbert and Sullivan. Dumbledore got to be Schubert."  
  
There was a pregnant pause ... during which the wind seemed to whip at the trees just a bit harder.  
  
"But there were several others. Gwyneth was one of us. Her code was Rachmaninov, and the next year Frank and Anne Longbottom joined us. They were Haydn and Ravel. And there was one other ... you might have heard him spoken of during my trial."  
  
He looked at Ron.  
  
"My Dad," whispered Ron. "Pettigrew was talking about him performing the Fidelius Charm too ..."  
  
"Did you ask him about it afterwards?" asked Sirius.  
  
Ron nodded. "Yeah, actually," he said, his voice sounding suddenly hollow and strained. "He didn't want to talk about it."  
  
Sirius smiled. "Arthur Weasley was the fifteenth, and the oldest. He was Wagner."  
  
"Dad always did like Wagner," said Ron to himself.  
  
"Oh yeah, we all got to choose our composers," said Sirius. "James went for Elgar because of 'Pomp and Circumstance' ... he was Head Boy, see? Lily wanted Mozart because she was a good piano player. Eric and Val took Gilbert and Sullivan because they were already married ... wanted a good double act. Gershwin we chose because Anthea was American and liked show tunes, so it seemed to fit."  
  
He became aware that both Harry and Ron were looking at him with an air of intense interest, and not having been the subject of such intense scrutiny since ... well, since his trial really, he found himself kind of enjoying himself.  
  
"Can I ask a question about my Dad?" asked Ron.  
  
Sirius nodded. "Um, yeah, fire away."  
  
"How come ... he never talks ... he never told me, or us, or anybody? Surely I'd have known if my Dad was some kind of James Bond hangover."  
  
"I already said it wasn't spying, it was something very different, something altogether far more dangerous," said Sirius. "Your Father um ... stayed in the office and dealt with the paperwork ..."  
  
Ron, who had no doubt been imagining some daring feats of heroism; aerial broomstick chases, death defying leaps from cliffs, abseiling down dams and hanging out in seedy Monegasque bars drinking Pernod amongst a hundred smoking Frenchmen waiting for a contact in a beige raincoat to show up, looked disappointed.  
  
"That's why," said Sirius. "That's why Voldemort wanted your parents, Harry. They were too much of a threat ... ordinary wizards didn't know about the MOMPL, and we weren't allowed to tell them about it; which is why everyone thinks it's still a case of straightforward murder, which of course, it was, in a way ..."  
  
Harry interrupted. "You mean he was looking for them for a reason?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Well, strictly speaking they had something he wanted. Only thing is, they weren't keeping it at the house in Godric's Hollow."  
  
"What was it?" asked Harry.  
  
"You wouldn't want to know," said Sirius airily. "He never found it, of course ... the reason being James and Lily had had the foresight to lock it in my vault at Gringott's. It's what Dumbledore sent me to ..."  
  
He stopped, his body frozen, his muscles tense. He looked as though he was about to fight someone.  
  
"What's the matter?" asked Harry.  
  
"Shush, hold it a minute," whispered Sirius. "Keep your voices down low, and be ready to run for it when I give you the word."  
  
This time, whatever Sirius had heard sounded again, closer, like twigs were being broken under the weight of something, something big.  
  
Ron had gone as white as a sheet again. "I don't like the sound of this," he breathed.  
  
"Walk out of here, now," said Sirius, still clutching Frank Longbottom's ID papers. "Go ... whatever it is ... just go, and don't stop till you get back to the school. I'll cover you."  
  
"Don't be stupid, Sirius," began Harry, only to be cut off by a strangled squawk from Ron. He was pointing at something, and backing away. His mouth was opening and shutting like a goldfish on speed.  
  
Instantly, Harry whirled around. The thing that had been making the noise was advancing towards them across the clearing, clicking its mandibles in anticipation of the feast.  
  
It was an acromantula.  
  
Ron let out a faint squeak, and then was gone, haring off through the trees. Harry took one look at Sirius ...  
  
"Go!" hissed Sirius, slowly withdrawing his wand from inside his robe.  
  
Harry tore himself away, and next thing he knew, was running out of the clearing, feeling the brambles tearing at his robes, twigs clawing viciously at the skin of his face, his feet thudding on the bare earth. Behind him, he could hear shouts, but he did not dare look back. The only thought fixed in his mind was to get far away from the Forbidden Forest; as far away as possible.  
  
The hem of his robe snagged on a tree root, and for a brief second, he felt himself flying through the air, landing headfirst on a patch of earthy ground. He felt something give inside him, and winced in pain as he rolled over onto his side, shuddering. He could feel his heart beating nineteen to the dozen.  
  
The pain in his arm was terrible. He struggled up into a sitting position, and chanced a look around. There was no sign of Aragog, or any of the other spiders, although for that matter, neither was there any sign of Sirius.  
  
"Hello," he ventured.  
  
A snidget was watching him from a high branch. It flew off as soon as he spotted it, tiny wings beating against the air.  
  
With his good arm, Harry heaved himself upright, and clambered to his feet, leaning on the trunk of the tree he had tripped over to support himself.  
  
"Damn," he swore. A dull, throbbing ache was spreading through his skull to accompany the fierce, stabbing pain in his left arm, which he could now see was bent forwards at an ugly angle. Tentatively, Harry put his other hand to his forehead, and it came away bloody. There was a cut inches below his hairline, right over his scar.  
  
"Damn," he said again.  
  
A sudden scream echoed through the forest. It sounded too far off to be any danger to him, yet at the same time it sounded like Sirius was in trouble. Big trouble. Harry was momentarily torn between continuing his flight from the forest, or going back to try and render assistance to his Godfather.  
  
His worries were confirmed mere seconds later by a sudden, ear-piercing howl of terror ... coming from somewhere very close, and sounding like Ron. It was somewhere over to his right. Harry spun round. Dark shapes were moving quickly between the thick trunks of the trees, but they were going far too fast for him to be able to make out exactly what they were.  
  
"Ron?"  
  
The yell came again. That was Ron! Adrenaline surging through his bloodstream, Harry reached into his robe, and extracted his wand, which he held out in front of him, like a gun. He took a step forwards, misjudged the position of the tree root again, and went sprawling on his face.  
  
Almost immediately, he heard crashing, someone forcing their way through the thorny undergrowth, and then hands he recognised as Sirius' had seized him under the arms, and he was being hauled once more to his feet. Harry looked up. Blood was pouring from Sirius' nose, but his expression was one of triumph.  
  
"I stunned the bugger," he said. "But it won't stay down for long. We'd better get out of here quickly."  
  
"Ron's somewhere over there," breathed Harry. "I think he might be in trouble too."  
  
"Come on, then."  
  
Picking his way carefully through the bushes, Sirius led Harry in the direction of where Harry thought he had heard Ron's cries. As they neared the spot, Harry fancied he could hear ragged breathing and muffled moaning. Sure enough, as they forced their way between two very large, very dark old oak trees, Sirius put his hands out for Harry to stop.  
  
"Oh hell," he said.  
  
Harry craned to see. Sirius stepped forwards. They were standing on the edge of another clearing that Harry did not recognise. Sprawled on the forest floor, his body half covered with dried leaf litter and humus, was Ron.  
  
"Stay where you are," Sirius barked, walking slowly over to the body, and dropping to his knees next to it.  
  
Harry ignored him, and surged forwards himself, not caring whether his arm was broken or not.  
  
"Is he ..." he began.  
  
Sirius rose from his inspection of the bloodstained, battered body, and shook his head. "He's very much alive," he said. He seemed to be moving to block something from Harry's view.  
  
"He's very badly hurt though," said Sirius. "We'll need to get him up to the Hospital Wing ... double quick. He's lost a lot of blood."  
  
He shifted sideways to tend to the boy's injuries, and in an instant Harry saw what had happened. One of the spiders had bitten him in the left leg ... the pincer responsible was still sticking out of the wound it had created, and the flesh around it was turning a vile shade of greenish yellow, and smelled horrible. Furthermore, the acromantula in question had actually bitten the entire leg off below the knee. There was nothing there but a bloody, ragged stump, with the top end of the ankle bone protruding, pearly white against the dark flesh.  
  
"He put a tourniquet on," said Sirius. "That'll have stopped the poison spreading too much," he gestured to the top of Ron's leg ... he had taken the belt off his trousers, and secured it tightly around himself. "It constricts the blood vessels," Sirius went on.  
  
"He'll be okay?" Harry ventured, feeling physically sick at the sight of his grievously wounded friend.  
  
"If we move fast," said Sirius. He waved his wind over Ron's prone form. "Mobilicorpus," he said.  
  
The body rose up a foot or so above the forest floor, and under Sirius' direction, they moved him slowly out of the Forbidden Forest, and back up the hill towards the castle.  
  
END OF PART FOUR.  
  
A FEW POSERS.  
  
Five hundred points and a round of applause to whoever can decipher the names of the three other Magical cities; they are all real places in the UK! Forty points to the decipherer of the OOTP acronym (come on, as if it isn't obvious) and five million points if you can tell me the rest of my plot based on the teasers in that part.  



	6. The Scarlet Pimpernel

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
A/N  
  
Most of the characters, locations and concepts contained within this work are the sole property of J.K. Rowling. I recognise I have no rights over the characters, and imply no rights of ownership or control.  
  
Thanks for bearing with me these last few weeks. It's been a tough ride.  
  
I unashamedly stole some ducky socks from The Song of Time, but they're not Draco's any more. And if you haven't read that particular story yet - then what's keeping you? Nonono! Don't go - read this *first*!  
  
A NOTE ON CONTINUITY  
  
I appear to have confused some of you. If you have been confused about Hagrid and Snape teaching, then you need to read this bit. Snape was not teaching at Hogwarts for the start of the Autumn Term - he was still off on the mission Dumbledore set him. Hagrid was not teaching because he was still off contacting the giants. Gwyneth and Sirius were their respective replacements. The kids were told Snape and Hagrid were on sabbatical. Snape returned unexpectedly early, hence his appearance in Dracaena Draco. However, he did not want to take on his classes till after Christmas, therefore Gwyneth has been kept on. Snape has been living down in Hogsmeade. The reason he showed up when Hagrid, Remus and Sirius were searching for Harry is because he was collecting his mail, as should be immediately apparent if you read Part 4. He is not teaching potions yet. That is still Gwyneth's job. Hagrid returned on schedule at the end of Dracaena Draco, and has resumed teaching his practical (outdoor) classes. However because he is rubbish at teaching theory, Sirius has stayed on to teach that part of the course, and also to keep Gwyneth company, and to keep an eye on Harry. Sirius' contract, like Gwyneth's, runs out at Christmas. There ... sorted now?  
  
YET ANOTHER QUICK NOTE  
  
Whenever we're seeing something in Harry's point of view ... it is 'our' Harry. This may seem pointless, but it will hopefully avoid confusion when the story starts getting complicated, which it is about to.  
  
THE STORY SO FAR  
  
Sirius has been found not guilty of the crimes everyone thought he had committed, and has since become engaged to Gwyneth Jones, the 'substitute' potions teacher. Meanwhile, following the harrowing events of Dracaena Draco, Harry has become increasingly disturbed and angry, and troubled by a series of horrible nightmares. The discovery of a strange diary by Draco has aroused Harry's curiosity, as has the subsequent discovery of a corpse in the Forbidden Forest, a corpse revealed to be that of Neville's Dad, Frank Longbottom, who, says Sirius, had connections with an organisation referred to in acronym as the OOTP. Our story continues ...  
  
DEDICATED  
  
To Douglas Adams, who sadly died a few weeks ago.  
  
PART SIX. THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.  
  
"... and Mr Fuller denied that the use of the beach cabana in Hawaii and allegations of gross sexual misconduct had anything to do with his resignation. He merely wishes to spend more time at home with his wife and children."  
  
"You're listening to WWN. It's coming up to five o'clock, on Thursday the 30th of November, 1995. Before we hand you over to Alan Titchmarsh and the team for 'Herbologist's Question Time', a recap on today's top stories. The Ministry of Magic continues to deny rumours that last night's explosion on Diagon Alley was anything to do with the resurgence of the Dark Side. Two people were injured in the blast, which occurred outside the packed 'Golden Snitch' club at the prestigious Home Park end of Diagon Alley. Witnesses claim to have seen the Dark Mark shot into the sky immediately afterwards. The MLES, (Magical Law Enforcement Service) have no leads at this time, and the investigation continues. Damage to property was minimal, although the clean-up operation may cost up to a million Galleons. Officers of the MCID, (Magical Criminal Investigation Department) moved against numerous targets across the United Kingdom in a series of dawn raids, codenamed Operation Quick Fire, this morning. Up to fifteen people have been arrested in connection with the Dark Lord. Meanwhile, Minister Fudge continues to stun the Magical community with his 'vaporise first, ask questions later' policy. Up to ten people have, in the last few days, been sentenced to Azkaban, and it is believed five of those have now been kissed. In a special report tonight at 8, Fergus McDonald looks at magical justice in Britain today, and asks, with the Dark Side on the rise again, are our courts going too far ..."  
  
**************  
  
To Dumbledore's eternal credit, he managed to hush up the discovery of Frank Longbottom's body from the rest of the Hogwarts students. Harry found himself being summoned up to his study later that same day, where he was told in no uncertain terms that if he *did* tell anybody about what he had seen, the consequences would be as dire as it was within Dumbledore's power to make them. Harry, who had still been a bit dazed at the time, had allowed these words to go straight in one ear, and right out of the other. He excused himself from afternoon classes, and went up to his Dormitory to lie down. Nobody disturbed him at all.  
  
After dinner (shepherd's pie followed by spotted dick and custard), Hermione caught him, and dragged him up to the Hospital Wing to visit Ron. Regrettably, Ron had not yet come round from his acromantula-enduced coma. He was lying stiffly in bed, his forehead slick with perspiration, his hands folded neatly across his chest, looking silly in the only pyjamas Madam Pomfrey had been able to find, which had fluttering golden snitches on them. There was a strange ... dip in the eiderdown where his left leg should have been. Someone ... Harry could only assume Fred and George, or maybe Ginny, had left him a large slab of Honeyduke's chocolate.  
  
"I don't know why you want to see him," Madam Pomfrey fussed, as she rearranged Ron's bedclothes, tucking the boy in so tightly it was a miracle he was still able to breathe. "There really is no point in trying to talk to him, he can't hear you."  
  
Hermione coughed awkwardly. "Um ... that isn't actually true," she said. "Medical evidence suggests it may well be possible for comatose people to be able to ..." she trailed off upon catching the expression on Madam Pomfrey's face.  
  
"Can we just sit with him?" asked Harry. "Just for a minute or two. Please?"  
  
Madam Pomfrey sighed. It was practically common knowledge amongst the students that she considered Harry one of those delicate specimens to be mothered and given hot chocolate and so on - she was never able to resist him for long.  
  
"Just for a little while," she said. "I'll be in the office if you need me."  
  
She bustled off, stopping as she went to take the temperature of a First Year Slytherin girl who had come down with something unsavoury. Harry approached the bed cautiously. He had never seen Ron quite like this before. Countless times *he*, Harry, had ended up in the hospital wing ... he had spent whole days up here, unconscious, being visited by his friends, but he could not recall Ron ever having been up there ... save a couple of times; once during the First Year, and again at the end of their Third Year It was a shock to the system to see him lying there, clearly in pain, clearly ill - looking, as most people do when they are dead to the world, unguarded and whole years younger.  
  
"You probably can't hear me, eh?" said Harry quietly.  
  
If Ron could, he obviously wasn't showing it.  
  
"Sorry," he said.  
  
He heard faint footsteps on the floor as Hermione tactfully withdrew a short distance away. Harry stood over the bed, looking down at Ron's face. He seemed thinner, more freckly than usual. Odd, he thought, that I never noticed that before.  
  
"I keep thinking," said Harry. "That if I wasn't around, you wouldn't keep getting hurt by me. If you'd stumbled into somebody else's compartment that day, you might not even know me. Then you could have done what you wanted ... and you wouldn't be some stupid sidekick."  
  
He wasn't sure if Hermione could hear him, and to be perfectly honest, he really didn't care. The words just seemed to be tumbling out.  
  
"Actually, I'd have gone into Slytherin, and you could have hated my guts these last five years. That's ..." Harry realised what he was about to say before he actually said it ... he stopped and stuttered. "That's why I ran away. I guess. To give you guys a break. I mean, I'm basically pathetic, right?"  
  
Ron didn't say anything. Well - had he honestly expected him to?  
  
"You'd better go," Madam Pomfrey was back on the ward, wheeling before her a little trolley, balanced upon the top of which was an earthenware bowl, from which issued forth a strange, earthy, herbal smell. There was a large roll of bandage, and several sprigs of what looked like bracken, too. "I have to put this on him ... draw out the poison. You wouldn't want to watch."  
  
Harry withdrew from the bed. "May we come up and see him tomorrow?"  
  
Madam Pomfrey sighed. "Yes ... I dare say you *may*," she said. "Come along now, please. It's past your bedtime."  
  
Harry looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight. "Um ... okay," he said.  
  
**************  
  
Upon arriving back in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, which seemed altogether empty without Ron's normal, pervasive presence, Harry was surprised to see Dumbledore himself standing next to the window, looking out over the darkened school grounds. He was holding a small, leather-bound notebook.  
  
"Sir?" ventured Harry, stepping into the room, and allowing the door to fall shut behind him.  
  
"Ah," Dumbledore turned round. The flickering candlelight danced and twinkled in his eyes. "Do have a seat, Harry. I was wanting to talk to you."  
  
"You were waiting for me?" said Harry, moving to sit down on his bed, which he was painfully aware was untidy and unmade. He hastily smoothed out the covers.  
  
"It's nice in here," said Dumbledore, almost wistfully. "Come, my boy. I want to speak with you about your friend."  
  
"You mean Ron?" asked Harry.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "About Ron ... indeed," he said. "Do you mind if I sit down, Harry?"  
  
"No," said Harry. Dumbledore sat down on the bed next to Harry.  
  
"Get the weight off my feet," he grinned mischievously. "I'm not nearly as young as I used to be, Harry."  
  
"About Ron?"  
  
"Of course," said Dumbledore. "Sirius has, of course, told me what happened. Harry ... have you noticed anything strange about your friend?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "Not really," he said. "He seems just like normal."  
  
"Good ... that's good," said Dumbledore.  
  
"Was there any particular reason, sir?" he asked.  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "Oh, not especially," he said. "No real reason at all, to be quite frank. I was very sorry to hear of his accident ..."  
  
"What's going to be done?" asked Harry.  
  
"I imagine a false leg will have to be fitted," said Dumbledore. "But that, my boy, is completely beside the point. Sirius tells me you might have something to show me ..."  
  
Did he mean the diary? Harry wasn't sure.  
  
"I don't think so," said Harry.  
  
Dumbledore put his hands in his lap, and laced his gnarled, wrinkly fingers together. It looked painful, and Harry observed for the first time that his joints seemed knotted with arthritis. "He tells me you mentioned to him a diary."  
  
"I wouldn't like to show it to you," said Harry. The diary was meant to be a secret. For someone who had gotten into so much trouble during his school days, Sirius didn't half act like a grownup sometimes. Babbling all his secrets. As if it wasn't bad enough that Gwyneth seemed to have memorised his timetable, and kept popping up to ask if he was okay.  
  
"Don't be cheeky, boy," said Dumbledore. "May I please see it?"  
  
Harry sighed, and leant over to his nightstand, pulling open one of the drawers - thankful he had had the foresight not to pack the diary in with the things in the secret drawer, which probably would not have stood up well to scrutiny by the headmaster. He had taken the dust jacket off the notebook he used as his own journal, and hidden Frank Longbottom's diary within that. He picked it up, and handed it over.  
  
"I see," said Dumbledore. He carefully removed the dust jacket, and handed it back to Harry. "Do you object at all if I ..."  
  
Harry shook his head. What choice did he have?  
  
Dumbledore flicked through the pages. He appeared to be scanning them as he went. "As I thought," he said. "This is just what I suspected it would be. Harry, you do realise how important this document is?"  
  
Harry shook his head again. "I thought it was just a diary, sir."  
  
Dumbledore smiled. "Oh no, very much the opposite," he said. "Well ... I say that ... of course it *is* a diary. But it's a very important one. This belonged to a man called Algernon Longbottom. He was a friend of mine, many years ago ... haven't seen him for ages. I imagine Frank ... the man you found was looking after it for him, or rather ... for you."  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly.  
  
"You mean to say you haven't worked this out yet?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
"I've only even read it a couple of times," said Harry in his defence.  
  
Dumbledore smiled. "I see," he said. "I imagine you have shown it to Hermione?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Very wise ... she's a sensible girl," said Dumbledore. He handed the diary back to Harry. "I think, perhaps, it might be polite if you were to show it to Neville too."  
  
Harry looked up. "Sir, does, um, Neville know about his Dad yet?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "I told him myself not an hour ago," he said. "He's being comforted by Professor McGonagall now. I *don't* advise you to talk to him tonight. He's very upset ... and he needs time to calm down, to get his head in order."  
  
"Very well, sir," said Harry.  
  
Dumbledore looked at the diary again. "Harry ... open that book to December."  
  
Harry did so.  
  
"December 26th. If I remember correctly, there should be a note. It's addressed to me, and a couple of other people," said Dumbledore.  
  
Harry unfolded the crinkled, yellowing note from within the pages of the diary once more, and opened it out. "Albus, Aberforth, Algernon, Emeritus, Charles and Mary," he read.  
  
"Any idea who those people are?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
"Albus is you, sir," said Harry. "I know you have a brother called Aberforth. Algernon must be Algie Longbottom. I've never heard of Emeritus or Mary ... but the instructions on the back say Charles P. Does that mean Charles Potter?"  
  
Dumbledore smiled. "You are almost spot on," he said. "I needn't have been worried. You are evidently quite capable of working this out for yourself. Emeritus was your Great-Uncle. Charles was indeed your paternal Grandfather, and Mary was his wife, your Grandmother."  
  
"What ... happened to them?" asked Harry. "I never knew?"  
  
"Your Grandfather died of cancer," said Dumbledore softly. "Lung cancer. He smoked fifty cigarettes a day for nearly seventy years, after all. Your Grandmother followed, I am sad to say, soon afterwards. It was the year after your parents left school, but that is by the by. Do you know what the instructions are? Do you have any idea what they might be?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "There's someone called Harry mentioned."  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "They are instructions for a very sensitive mission," he said simply.  
  
"It would do me no good at all to know about it?" ventured Harry.  
  
Dumbledore smiled. "Not at this precise moment in time," he said. "Come now, Harry. You're doing very well. Allow me to tell you a little story. It may seem irrelevant ... but believe me, it is anything but. Back in the autumn of 1941, Britain had no friends. Europe was occupied by a hostile power ... we were fighting, alone and for our lives. And the magical community was getting worried. There was a threat to us even greater than that presented by the Nazi hordes ..."  
  
"Grindelwald?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes ... indeed, Harry ..."  
  
"You defeated him, didn't you ..." he broke off as Dumbledore raised his hand for silence.  
  
"I did," said Dumbledore. "But that was to come later, and in 1941, the wizarding world was running very scared. Nobody knew what was what, and there was a great confusion arising as to where things really were, and what was really happening. There were many people who were of the opinion that the man Grindelwald and Hitler were one and the same person, and that we would do best by throwing in our lot with the Muggles. As it turned out, this was not true, they were separate entities and had nothing to do with one another. It was merely fate that dictated they arose at the same time. However, at the time, the Ministry of Magic was taking these claims very seriously, and my brother Aberforth, not being very bright, bless him, was sent to investigate them. During 1941, he travelled the length and breadth of Britain, wheedling out information. In early December, he was working in London."  
  
The Headmaster paused, and for a second, Harry got the feeling he was communicating with something far off ... in a far off place and a far off time.  
  
"One day, December 7th, to be exact, a young boy was brought into a hospital nearby. Aberforth, got wind of the fact that this boy was something rather unusual," said Dumbledore. "The boy was, apparently predicting things. He was predicting the outcome of the War, atom bombs. Aberforth claimed he even predicted the Berlin Wall. And the doctors, being doctors, and being Muggles, thought this boy to be merely insane, and would have locked him away, but for one prediction. On December 7th, 1941, America was bombed into the War at Pearl Harbour. The boy predicted this event ... just ten minutes before the news came through on the wireless. The doctors were intrigued. Come morning time, Aberforth, arrived, posing as a relative, and noticed something altogether weird. The boy was indubitably a wizard. Though he had no wand, he was definitely causing magic to occur when stressed or angry. Aberforth was in contact immediately with Emeritus Potter, your Great-Uncle, who was well positioned as the local Ministry representative, and was told to bring the boy to Hogwarts post haste."  
  
Dumbledore stopped. "I fear," he went on. "I have probably already told you too much. Nevertheless, the boy was returned to his family ..."  
  
"I don't see what this has to do with me," said Harry.  
  
"Hmm," said Dumbledore ... he appeared to be in some sort of a daze. "Well," he went on. "I have a feeling there are questions that need to be answered, Harry."  
  
Harry nodded. "Who was the boy?"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "That, Harry, I cannot tell you. It would cause too much complication."  
  
"This may seem irrelevant ... but there was *one* other thing," said Harry. "Have you ever heard of something called the OOTP."  
  
"The Order of the Phoenix?" said Dumbledore. "Of course. I ran it."  
  
"I knew that," said Harry. "Sirius told me a bit about it ... but not what it was."  
  
"An organisation," said Dumbledore. "Of which your parents were a part. They were a dedicated bunch. The Order worked against Voldemort during the fight against him. Harry ... my boy, I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. This is one of those things," he looked awkward. "When you are ready to know, you will find out," he said. "That I can guarantee."  
  
"You always say that," said Harry grumpily. Dumbledore ruffled his hair affectionately.  
  
"I know," he said. "I think perhaps you should get some rest, Harry. I have to go and talk to Sirius."  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth was piling books into a very battered old suitcase when the knock came. Annoyed at the interruption, for she was very busy indeed, she barked, "Yes!"  
  
The door opened slightly, revealing Sirius, looking apologetic, and holding a fresh bouquet of flowers.  
  
"If this is a bad time," he said, "I can always come back later."  
  
Gwyneth smiled. "No, come in," she said. "Always a pleasure to see you, my darling."  
  
Sirius stepped carefully into the room, noting as he did so that the floor, the bed, indeed, every available space was littered with books.  
  
"I'll put these in water. Did a bomb go off in here?" he asked.  
  
Gwyneth shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm just putting some stuff together to send down to the new house in Wabznasm," she said. "I thought it'd make it easier than moving everything in one go when we finally get married."  
  
"Sensible," said Sirius, he placed the flowers in a rather handsome cut glass vase, and set it down on the windowsill, amongst Gwyneth's collection of china animal figurines. "Mind if I sit down?"  
  
"Go ahead," said Gwyneth. "Wait! Not there!" she squeaked, rushing to rescue a pile of first edition Brontes from the bed.  
  
"I never knew you had so many books," said Sirius, looking around. "It's quite a little library you've got going here."  
  
Gwyneth blushed. "I have been collecting for a very long time," she said. "Muggle books, a lot of them, but very interesting ones, all the same," she lifted down from a high shelf a folio edition of Shakespeare, treating it as though it were a priceless religious relic.  
  
Sirius picked up a book lying at his feet. "Ge Fordge's Compendyum of Sex Majick?" he said. "Gwyneth?"  
  
"Ah, thanks, I was looking for that," she said. "Now ... have you seen Nosehinger's Laws of Contract Bridge."  
  
Sirius scanned the bookshelves. "Yup," he said. "Right there ... in between Practical Dragon Breeding for the Wary, and Belgium: A History."  
  
"Thanks," said Gwyneth.  
  
Sirius smiled up at her. "What say we abandon the packing for tonight, my Welsh rare bit?"  
  
"*That* was quite hideously corny," said Gwyneth, chuckling.  
  
"I was thinking," said Sirius, "that we need to start planning our honeymoon. Any ideas on where you want to go?"  
  
"None whatsoever," said Gwyneth, stacking yet more books into an empty cardboard box that had once held wine.  
  
Sirius clearly *had* been thinking, for he pulled from within his robes a rolled up travel brochure, the page in question book-marked with a browning banana skin.  
  
"How do you fancy a Caribbean Cruise?" he asked, opening the brochure to the right description.  
  
"Describe it to me," said Gwyneth. "Are there heavenly beaches and scuba diving and things like that?"  
  
Sirius coughed. "Okay then ... travelling by Floo Powder to Barbados, you will spend two days just relaxing on the beach, or being pampered at our five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre. Once you have eased away the aches and pains of a British winter, and settled into our gentle island rhythm, you will transfer to our five star luxury cruise liner, the MS Sunshine Zenith, where you can relax on deck, by any one of our three pools, work out in the gym, socialise in the bar, enjoy a gourmet feast in our five star luxury restaurant, or enjoy being pampered at our on-board five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre ..."  
  
"Sounds ghastly so far," said Gwyneth. "Carry on."  
  
"After watching the sun set over the beautiful Caribbean Sea, retire to the ballroom and dance to the sounds of Jack 'The Glove' Rimmer and his Rhythm and Blues Orchestra, or enjoy the cabaret of Mademoiselle Jeanette le Bourget and the French Follies. Two days at sea brings us to the island of Cuba, where you will have a whole day free to explore the delights of the Muggle city of Havana, designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Sailing again in the evening, the following morning we dock in Key West, where you can relax on shore, relishing the Bohemian atmosphere. Why not treat yourself to a pampering session at the five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre? Or for the more adventurous, explore the house of the wizard writer, Ernest Hemingway, now maintained by a dedicated team of animagi, cunningly disguised as cats. Back on board the MS Sunshine Zenith, it's American Theme Night. Why not treat yourself to grilled lobster and clam chowder in our five star luxury restaurant? Or for the truly adventurous, sup on our giant Texan T-Bone. The entertainment tonight is provided by Ryan McVitie, acclaimed New Orleans jazz musician, followed by the comic stylings of New Yorker Deira Donahue, who will regale you with her hilarious accounts of life as a freelance funeral director in Perth Amboy, New Jersey ..."  
  
"It doesn't really say that, does it?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"No, I made that last bit up," said Sirius. "In the morning, we sail for the beautiful Bahamas ..."  
  
"I've heard enough," said Gwyneth. "Tempt me with something else ... please."  
  
Sirius flicked through the brochure some more. "Okay," he said. "How about an Egyptian Expedition. Joining the luxury five star Nile cruise liner Star of Giza in Cairo, sail past the Pyramids, the ancient City of the Dead at Luxor, and the engineering miracle of the Aswan High Dam ..."  
  
"Is there cabaret?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Let Fatima and her troupe of dancing girls show you the mysteries of the East. Fancy dress is a must for a night of hilarious fun. There's a photo here of a pasty fat bloke dressed as a Roman legionary."  
  
"Hideous," said Gwyneth. "Why don't we book a walking holiday in the Yorkshire Dales?"  
  
"Transfer to Sharm-el-Sheikh, where you can scuba dive in the Red Sea, or be pampered at the five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre," Sirius went on.  
  
"Scotland ... North Wales is lovely ... we could visit Portmeirion," said Gwyneth hopefully.  
  
"An Aussie Adventure," said Sirius. "The ancient rock of Uluru, sacred to the aboriginal people ..."  
  
"If we *must* go abroad, then let's just have a dirty weekend in Paris," said Gwyneth. "Or we could do a pub crawl in Dublin."  
  
"The cabaret is four pissed up blokes in hats with corks on singing Waltzing Matilda," said Sirius. "We can take an option to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge, if you'd like ..."  
  
"Cornwall? Brussels is meant to be lovely for gastronomes like you. Maybe even Vienna. We could go to the opera! I love opera."  
  
A grin spread across Sirius' face. "Bike Route 66 on a Harley Davidson," he said. "Chicago to Los Angeles ..."  
  
Gwyneth seized the brochure. "Why don't we book a golfing break at Gleneagles?" she asked.  
  
"You don't play golf ..."  
  
"I'll learn," said Gwyneth, firmly.  
  
"Safari in the big game parks of Zimbabwe?"  
  
"No!"  
  
A knock on the door disturbed them both. They stopped arguing immediately.  
  
"Come in!" Gwyneth called.  
  
The door opened a fraction, and Dumbledore came in, albeit apologetically.  
  
"Sorry ...were you busy?"  
  
"Not at all," said Gwyneth. "We were just discussing where to go on our honeymoon."  
  
Dumbledore smiled. "I always fancied Minorca. But that's by the by. I have some things I would like to talk with you about. May I sit down?"  
  
"Sure ... hang on, clear some of this clutter," said Gwyneth, removing a pile of Mills & Boons off an armchair. "Sorry it's a bit of a mess, I have removal men coming tomorrow to take most of it away."  
  
"Probably fortunate," said Dumbledore, sitting down. "Nice to take the weight off my feet these days, see?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "I quite understand, sir."  
  
Dumbledore eyed Sirius over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. "Sirius ... how many times do I have to tell you that my name is Albus? Call me that."  
  
"Was it anything, specific, um, Albus?" asked Sirius, aware as he said it how ridiculous and stilted he sounded. There was something about Dumbledore's mere presence in the room that gave him the strongest, and the strangest urge to fess up immediately ... tell the man everything, he thought, and maybe you might just get away with a detention.  
  
"It's about Harry," said Dumbledore. "I just spoke with him about the diary ..."  
  
"The one I told you about?" asked Sirius, he had slipped one shoe off and was waggling his toes.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "That one ... exactly," he said. "It would appear to be of some importance. For a start, it is no ordinary diary."  
  
"What's extraordinary about it, then?" asked Gwyneth, who had ceased packing away her vast book collection, and was perched awkwardly on the windowsill.  
  
"You remember Frank Longbottom," Dumbledore caught himself. "What am I saying ... of course you do. This diary belonged to his Uncle ... Algernon."  
  
"Wasn't he ..." began Gwyneth.  
  
"Yes, he was," said Dumbledore. "I haven't told Harry of course. I don't think he quite understands how much he is mixed up in all this brouhaha."  
  
"What brouhaha?" asked Sirius, who had not been previously aware that there was one ... a brouhaha, that is ... whatever one of those is.  
  
"This brouhaha," said Dumbledore. "This whole ... thing. I mean, he *knows* he's in it up to his neck - and God knows I've tried to shield him as best I can ... and even my shields aren't infallible. There must come a time when Harry fights on his own."  
  
"It isn't coming yet, is it?" asked Sirius.  
  
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "It is coming sooner than you think," he said. "Sirius ... I am not as young as I used to be ..."  
  
"This isn't some sort of bestowing thing, is it?" asked Sirius, cutting off the Headmaster in mid-flow. "Because I don't want you to bequeath me the Headship of this school, or any kind of golden key."  
  
"Oh, no," said Dumbledore. "The succession is all worked out. The Governors have all agreed - it's been arranged for years. My successor here is all worked out ... what I want is for you to act as a kind of steward for Harry."  
  
"I *already* do," said Sirius, with feeling.  
  
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Of course, of course," he said. "Harry is going to need indoctrinating," he said. "He must be told about the Order of the Phoenix. He must be told what it was ... what it was all about. Eventually, we're going to need to resurrect it ..."  
  
"I think that's a bit of a tall order," scoffed Gwyneth.  
  
Dumbledore looked at her. "I'm surprised that you ... of all people, Gwyneth, have not been keeping up with the news."  
  
"I have," said Gwyneth. "It's just a load of second rate hacks at the Prophet overreacting. Nobody on that paper has a clue. I don't know what you expect from a Murdoch tabloid ..."  
  
"Nevertheless," said Dumbledore. "The Prophet isn't lying. For all its faults, it has remained an organ of the Light, no matter what happened. There've been disappearances, Gwyneth. Officers of the IBME Circle have vanished on operations. An executive of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, walking his kneazle on Wimbledon Common - vanished ... just like that."  
  
"But the need to resurrect the Order is not yet paramount," said Gwyneth.  
  
Dumbledore looked shocked. "I hardly think that is the correct way to speak of it," he said. "If it can be described as anything, then paramount is the word to use ... indubitably. Gwyneth - you must remember first time round. This is just like living through the Seventies again. The same things are happening ... the same things. It's been going on since June. Trouble is Fudge can't see further than the end of his own nose. Otherwise things would be happening. It makes me mad just to think of that man ..." he trailed off, clenching and unclenching his fists.  
  
"I haven't even spoken to him for a month," said Dumbledore, quietly. "I always knew he was a self-absorbed nincompoop ... but his level of idiocy knows no bounds."  
  
Sirius nodded. "Well," he said. "The Order is ready ... what's left of it. You *do* only have to give the word."  
  
"I still say we should wait," said Gwyneth.  
  
Dumbledore rounded on her. "And be forced to live with the fact that we were the people who did nothing when we could still do *something*?"  
  
"We're biding our time," said Gwyneth.  
  
"Arthur Weasley has a whole network of contacts in place at the Ministry," said Sirius. "They *almost* had some success already. The administration is wobbling. If any of our allies go ... then our government will go, too ... no doubt about it ..."  
  
"My concern wasn't for Arthur Weasley," said Dumbledore.  
  
"We've dragged Arabella out of retirement," Sirius went on. "Half of north-east Surrey has been warded off for Harry should the need arise. We've got Vernon bloody Dursley bending over backwards to keep us from turning his wife into a toadstool again. Mundungus says he needs a couple more days to get ready. Remus is already here. We're ready, Albus. Just give the word."  
  
"My concern isn't for them," said Dumbledore. "My concern is for Harry. After I'm gone, what will happen?"  
  
"You aren't going anywhere," said Sirius.  
  
"But if I do," said Dumbledore.  
  
"Well ... your successor isn't exactly going to take it lying down, is he?"  
  
Dumbledore looked up. "Snape?" he asked. "Voldemort is *not* scared of Severus Snape. Snape is a worthy successor, but even his loyalties are not set in concrete ..."  
  
"And we all said that about Peter," agreed Sirius. "Too dull to work for Voldemort ... too stupid. It'd never be him ..."  
  
Dumbledore looked up. "Exactly," he said. "Exactly right. Who can tell where our loyalties really lie? We were hours away from arresting Remus Lupin at one time. He would have been interrogated, then handed over to the Dementors. All because we thought Peter Pettigrew couldn't *possibly* be working for Voldemort ..." he stopped again.  
  
"Harry *must* be told," he said, rising to his feet. "There are no two ways about it."  
  
**************  
  
"... on Friday, December the 1st. I'm Godfrey Wayzgoose. The Ministry of Magic today declared a State of Emergency, following the deaths of up to sixteen people in the worst atrocity perpetrated in the Magical community since 1981. Today, in Wigtown, a community is in mourning; families have been torn asunder following the tragic derailment of the Edinburgh Flyer, heading north out of Hogsmeade. A huge blast detonated in the early hours of the morning caused the train to roll down an embankment and onto houses situated nearby. MLES operatives have sealed off the town in the hope of catching the perpetrators. Once again, eyewitnesses report seeing the Dark Mark shot into the sky. There can now be absolutely no question of the Dark Side's involvement. This atrocity will not go unpunished ... those at fault will be caught, is the Ministry's line to a shocked nation on this, bleakest of days. And we're getting reports now of further deaths in that tragedy ... the toll has now risen to twenty; that's within the last few minutes. We're going to break now for a weather update."  
  
**************  
  
The next morning, Harry came downstairs to breakfast later than usual to find most of the rest of the student body, with the conspicuous exceptions of Ron and Hermione, were already there. Subconsciously, he slid into the nearest vacant seat at the Gryffindor table, which he realised too late was next to Neville Longbottom, the last person he wanted to sit next to.  
  
Neville was reading a long letter from his Gran, which was propped up against a teapot so that he could concentrate on his toast at the same time. He looked up at Harry and smiled. Harry, who was just heaping sausages onto his plate, nearly dropped his plate on the floor.  
  
"Something up?" he asked Harry.  
  
Harry was barely able to speak; his throat was dry.  
  
"Not ... really," said Harry slowly, choosing his words. "Should I assume ..."  
  
Neville nodded. Then he sighed. "Dumbledore told me yesterday evening," he said.  
  
"I'm sorry, Neville," Harry began. "I'm really sorry ..."  
  
Neville, to Harry's surprise, actually smiled. "Don't be," he said presently. "I was upset when I heard ... but, I mean. He was practically a vegetable all my life. It isn't as if I ever knew him, or anything. I'm sorry he's dead ... but really, I don't feel a thing."  
  
He broke off.  
  
"I already lost him," said Neville. "Actually ... I'm more worried about Ron."  
  
Harry did not really know what to say to that. To agree with Neville ... of course he was more worried about Ron than the inadvertent death of Neville's father ... but wouldn't that be insulting? Harry didn't know. To disagree ... well ...  
  
Thankfully for Harry, Neville saved him from having to say anything. "Didn't you go up and see him last night?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah ... actually," he said. "I was going to ... again, go ... today I mean," the power of logical conversation in English seemed to be rapidly failing him. "You can, um, come if you'd like."  
  
Neville nodded. "Only if you want me to," he said. "You might want some privacy, or something ..."  
  
Harry poured himself a cup of tea, and swilled the bag round and round. "He'll probably be unconscious anyway," he said. "But ... well, it's up to you," he said.  
  
Neville smiled. "Maybe," he said. He folded up the letter from his Gran, and tucked it back into the pocket of his trousers. For a moment, both boys looked at one another, and to Harry it seemed as if, all too briefly, some kind of emotion passed between them. Something like ... solidarity.  
  
Harry wondered vaguely all the way through the first class of the morning whether or not he should show Neville the diary. He had kept it after Hermione and Draco had brought it to show him two days earlier ... and he had been reading it as well. Interesting things were contained within ... things that might even have relevance to Neville.  
  
The morning Transfiguration lesson soon rolled around and put all thoughts of diaries from Harry's mind. The class of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were set to work trying out an advanced mineral to vegetable transformation. Each student had been supplied with a single red house brick, and told to turn it into a marrow.  
  
It was about halfway through the lesson, when he chanced to sneak a glance out of the window, and spotted Dumbledore, walking down in the snow covered rose garden, a falconer's glove on one hand, exercising Fawkes, his phoenix, that he recalled something.  
  
"Hermione," he said, looking up suddenly. Hermione, who was tapping her brick with her wand to no avail, looked at him.  
  
"What is it?" she asked him.  
  
"Have you ... um, ever heard of something called the Order of the Phoenix?" asked Harry.  
  
"Concentrate please, Potter, Granger," said Professor McGonagall, dashing past on a flying visit before hastening off to the other side of the classroom, where poor Justin Finch-Fletchley had somehow managed to transfigure his brick into a small aubergine.  
  
"No," said Hermione, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Why ... is it something important?"  
  
"Have you any idea what it might have done?" asked Harry.  
  
"Yes, but it isn't a marrow, Finch-Fletchley," they heard Professor McGonagall saying loudly.  
  
Justin's reply was inaudible.  
  
"But I don't *want* to make a nice risotto, Finch-Fletchley," she replied.  
  
"No," said Hermione. "It sounds like some sort of weird cult. Like the Silver Serpent. Please say you aren't thinking of joining the Death Eaters, Harry."  
  
Harry gave her a withering look, but Hermione ignored it and went on. "I reckon you should try looking in the library," she said. This was her standard reaction, and could usually fairly sensibly be ignored - although, Harry thought - maybe, just this once, she's onto something. He resolved to go and check out the Library at lunch break.  
  
**************  
  
However, more pressing on Harry's mind at that precise moment was the need to go up to the Hospital Wing and see if Ron had come round yet. As soon as the bell for morning break had rung, Harry made his escape from the transfiguration class as quickly as possible, and clean forgetting his promise to Neville, headed up the stairs in the direction of Madam Pomfrey's domain.  
  
He was mildly surprised, upon entering the Hospital Wing, to see that Ron did not appear to be on the ward. He needn't have been worried, for seconds later, Ron appeared at the other end of the room, hobbling on crutches. He was, against all odds, grinning.  
  
"Morning," he said, brightly, flopping down on his bed and propping his crutches up against the bedside table. Harry couldn't help but notice that the chocolate he had spotted there the previous night was all gone. However, what was more intriguing to him was Ron's non-existent limb. The leg of his jeans had been rolled up to accommodate it ... or rather ... not to accommodate it.  
  
"Um ... does it ... is it?" Harry asked, aware even as he spoke how ridiculous he must sound.  
  
"Actually, no," said Ron. "Madam Pomfrey put some kind of herbal stuff on it to draw out the poison, and then she put a poultice on," he rolled up his trousers further to demonstrate. Sure enough, a thick, white bandage smelling very strongly of bracken and gorse had been wrapped round his ... his ... well, it could only really be described as a stump.  
  
Ron wiggled the stump about a bit. "Madam Pomfrey said I ought to exercise it as much as possible," he said. "To prevent the muscles from atrophying before she gets a chance to fix a false leg on."  
  
"Can she not just grow one for you?" asked Harry, who had once had all the bones in his arm re-grown overnight after an imbecilic idiot (Gilderoy Lockhart - to be exact) had inadvertently removed them all.  
  
Ron shook his head. "No, she can't," he said. "Magic's good for some things ... but even *we* can't create new legs out of thin air. No ... I'll be like this forever."  
  
Harry felt very awkward. This was *his* fault.  
  
Ron, however, seemed completely unperturbed. "Did you ever hear of Douglas Bader?" he asked. Harry wondered why he was changing the subject.  
  
"Er, no."  
  
"He was Muggle ... a trainee pilot," said Ron. "But he crashed, and they had to remove both his legs. For a while, he had to get about on a wooden leg and crutches. The doctors told him he'd never walk properly again. But he wanted to prove them wrong, so he learned how to drive, and as soon as he'd got proper, fake metal legs fitted, he finished his training and got his private pilot's licence. They even let him join the Air Force ... and this happened sixty odd years ago ..."  
  
Harry cut in. "What's your point?"  
  
"My point is," said Ron. "That even with two false legs, he could still fly a plane. Well ... d'you think I could still fly a broomstick?"  
  
Harry didn't know what to say. "Um ... I guess," he said. "I mean, they must be able to make these things better than they did sixty years ago."  
  
Ron grinned. "Don't write me off the Quidditch team yet then!"  
  
Harry, who hadn't even been thinking of Quidditch, gave a start. Ron's attitude was starting to get to him. He found it ... impossible to understand how Ron could be so bloody cheerful in the face of ... in the face of having had his life just ruined by his best friend. Why was he even still *talking* to him?  
  
"Ron," he said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Shouldn't you be ... tearing your hair out, or something?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron gave him a funny look. "Why on earth would I want to do that?" he asked. "Have you gone bonkers in the nut?"  
  
"Ron ... this is my fault," said Harry.  
  
Ron gave him an 'as if' look. "No it isn't."  
  
"Ron ... if you hadn't come into the Forest with us ... this wouldn't have happened ..."  
  
"Then it was bloody stupid of me to go into the Forest, especially when it's Forbidden" said Ron. "Harry, if there's one thing that this is not, it's your fault."  
  
Harry looked down and conducted an intensive study of Ron's vile, pink candlewick bedspread. "I just, think," he began, "that if it wasn't for me. If you weren't my friend, you wouldn't keep getting hurt by me."  
  
Ron cocked his head to one side. "Harry, don't be a silly arse. You're only saying that because secretly, you want me to tell you that it doesn't matter. You want me to tell you that you're my best friend and ... stuff. Well, I'm not going to give you that satisfaction. Would it help if I said something really horrible to you?"  
  
"Try me," said Harry, uncertainly.  
  
"You have terrible halitosis," said Ron.  
  
"Yeah, like that helped," said Harry, putting his hand to his mouth and breathing on it, just to check.  
  
"Harry," said Ron, looking serious. "Seriously. You are a really good friend to me. You always have been, and I don't regret a single moment of time I've spent with you. I don't regret a single thing we've done ..." he trailed off into the ether. Harry looked at him oddly.  
  
Ron changed the subject hurriedly. "Look ... Mum and Dad are coming up from Devon tomorrow to see me. I think Dad wants to take us out to dinner ... and, well, you're very welcome to come."  
  
"I don't think I should," said Harry.  
  
Ron shook his head. "Don't be daft, you silly arse," he said. "They like you. They really do. Mum's sort of adopted you already. And I think they want to marry Ginny off to you."  
  
Harry blushed furiously. "Ron!"  
  
"Well, it's true. Mum's been planning Ginny's wedding since the day she was born," said Ron. "Imagine how chuffed she'd be," he raised his voice to a pitch that was eerily reminiscent of Mrs Weasley. "My daughter you know ... married to the famous Harry Potter."  
  
Harry blushed even more. "Shut up."  
  
"You should see how Ginny goes when she gets near you," said Ron. "All gooey eyed ... frankly, it's sickening."  
  
"Ron!"  
  
"Just don't go getting any ideas," Ron went on, "you aren't old enough yet. Ouch!" He clutched his thigh.  
  
"Something up?"  
  
"Cramp," gasped Ron. "Give me a minute."  
  
"Ron," ventured Harry when the pain appeared to have subsided somewhat.  
  
"Yeah ... what?" asked Ron.  
  
"Have ... have you ... this thing ..."  
  
"Spit it out, Potter."  
  
"This Order of the Phoenix thing," said Harry.  
  
"That is?"  
  
Harry explained what he already knew to Ron - about the finding of the diary, what was contained within it, and the conversation he had had the previous evening with the Headmaster, when Ron had still been unconscious in the Hospital Wing. Ron, to his credit, listened with rapt attention.  
  
"Sounds like a Chinese takeaway," said Ron, when Harry had finished. "Chilli phoenix with noodles and egg fried rice ... perhaps your parents were in the catering business."  
  
Harry grinned. "Could be an avant-garde comedy revue group," he said.  
  
"Or some weird sect ... with apron twirling and stuff. Or maybe it's a burlesque house ..."  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows.  
  
"It's what my Mum calls them," said Ron defensively, blushing furiously. "With Sirius as a male stripper ..."  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows even further.  
  
"Ugh, sorry, you didn't hear me then," said Ron. "And my Dad was in charge of this thing?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Looks like it," he said.  
  
"May I see the diary?"  
  
Harry had left the diary up in his Dormitory. He shook his head. "No, sorry."  
  
"Pity," said Ron. "Harry ... I think you should go and look in the Library."  
  
"Are you feeling okay?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron furrowed his brow in a vain attempt to understand. "What ... I feel fine. Why?"  
  
"You're taking on Hermione's character traits," said Harry. "Has she put a Confundus Charm on you - or is this all just an evil plot to trick me into going to the Library?"  
  
"Nothing of the kind," said Ron. "I just can't help you. I don't know what it was. Dad ... Dad's never said anything about it. I mean, wasn't Sirius saying it was all top secret?"  
  
"I think so," said Harry.  
  
But he went to the Library anyway ...  
  
**************  
  
"The Order of the Phoenix. 1975-1983 ... are you listening to me?"  
  
Hermione coughed. "Yeah ... uh, sorry, Harry."  
  
Harry turned the page in the large, dusty looking volume that lay open across his lap. It was later that afternoon; lessons had just finished ... there were a good two hours to go until dinner, and they were up in the boys' dormitory. Ron had been released from the Hospital Wing, and with the aid of his new crutches, transferred back up to his normal bed on the condition (according to Madam Pomfrey) that he did not get overexcited. So they were all three sitting on Ron's bed, taking care to avoid sitting on his non-existent leg, with the hangings drawn around them to ensure some privacy.  
  
"Carry on," Ron said.  
  
Harry gave a small cough, and flicked the page lightly over. Then he continued reading. "A name that the Ministry of Magic does not want you to hear. An organisation that the powers that be do not want you to be aware of. But we can now reveal, in this, the first part of the elaborate and unique 'Mysteries of the Magical World' Part-Work that you and your family will want to treasure for ever, the thrilling secrets behind this most mysterious of names. Our investigative reporters have been undercover for nearly six months, digging through the most restricted sections of the Ministry's London archive, travelling the length and breadth of Britain and Ireland, seeking out the truth. In the coming weeks, we will be investigating other great unsolved mysteries of our community; Noah's Ark, where all that water actually went, Atlantis ... why this secretive nation of witches and wizards has chosen to remain hidden for millennia ..."  
  
"Harry," Hermione cut in. "What exactly are you reading from? It sounds like the Daily Prophet ..."  
  
Harry nodded affirmatively. "That's, er, because it is," he said, lifting the cover for Hermione to see. In letters of embossed gold across the front of the book were the words 'Daily Prophet. Newspaper Archive 1986-1990.'  
  
"Harry, that book isn't meant to be taken out of the Library," said Hermione.  
  
"It's okay," said Harry. "I transfigured it into a copy of Maleficio's Discouverie of Demonologie. Madam Pince never even noticed."  
  
"Ooh ... clever," said Hermione, in admiration.  
  
"You couldn't find any other references?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Not anywhere in the entire Library," he said. "I ran a search through the system ... everything. Not a sausage."  
  
"Did you try the Restricted Section?" asked Hermione. The more dangerous books that Hogwarts' vast Library was possessed of were housed here ... many of them in vats of crushed ice in order to prevent damage to neighbouring volumes.  
  
"They'd closed it off," said Harry. "Some of the Dark Magic volumes got loose and ate a whole bunch of spell books. Can I carry on now?"  
  
"Yeah, sorry," said Ron, hauling himself upright in bed.  
  
Harry coughed again. "The Order of the Phoenix was an organisation founded during one of the greatest eras of trial for our people. In 1975, as the Dark Lord grew ever more strong, the decision was taken to inaugurate an organisation that would be able to work against him, to fabricate new methods of attack, new spells, even more lethal versions of the Killing Curse, more dangerous potions. The Order planned within its elite and select membership, garnered from the best and brightest minds of their time, the entire course of, what would have become, in time, an all out war, prevented only by the heroic sacrifice of ... oh, crap, I'm skipping this bit ... it reads like a bad novel," said Harry. "Um ... okay, where was I? Right, strategists, scientists, tacticians, all people brought together under the auspices of the Order."  
  
"With its headquarters located, fittingly, in Phoenix Park in Dublin, the Irish capital, it was left to the founder and head of the Order, who was no less than Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, to recruit his team of select operatives. The Order, at its peak in 1981, had nearly a hundred members, all of whom were sworn to absolute secrecy. Indeed, we at the Prophet do not even have access to their real names, for the members adopted code names ... those of famous musicians and artists," the story seemed to be gelling so far ... Harry was relieved.  
  
"Carry on," said Ron idly.  
  
"The building chosen as the headquarters of the Order was a large, redbrick Edwardian structure at the Park's centre, disguised from Muggles as a clump of trees. Built in 1905 to house the Anglo-Irish Magical Archive, the building was extensively damaged during the Easter Uprising in 1916, and fell into disrepair following Irish independence. During the War years, it was renovated, and with the permission of the Celtic Council of Magic, used by the British Ministry as a reception centre for refugees. Between 1945 and 1960, the building reverted to the control of the Celtic Council, and was used to house the Council's archive and museum. During this time, the building's vast underground vaults were constructed. However, in 1960, this operation was removed to new premises on the left bank of the River Liffey, in the Temple Bar area of the city, and the building again was neglected. In 1973 it was acquired by a group of trustees based in London and Hogsmeade, including unreal estate magnate Albus Dumbledore. When the Ministry created the Order in 1975, Dumbledore was first to volunteer the use of Phoenix House as a base for the organisation. Despite popular perception, the Order of the Phoenix was not named after the building or the park. The term 'Phoenix' was selected by the then Minister of Magic, as symbolising the wizarding community rising from the ashes of the war against You-Know-Who."  
  
"During the eight years during which Phoenix House was used in this capacity, considerable improvements and changes were made to the structure of the building. To increase anti-Muggle security, it was made unplottable. The structure was strengthened tenfold, and vast wards were placed around it. The above-ground facility was converted into living quarters for the members to use when working on site, and offices. The underground vaults were enlarged considerably. However, we know nothing of what these vaults contained. It is known that the thaum was first split here, possibly as early as 1976, which surely indicates the presence of a thaumic accelerator, a highly dangerous device that contains within it the power to destroy the fabric of the known universe. As to the other spells, curses and charms created by the Order's members, very little is known. Some of the spells are only now reaching us as evidence of a trickle-down effect, although why on earth the Order was working on Non-Choke Gobstones remains a blessed mystery."  
  
"It was a laboratory then?" asked Ron.  
  
"More than that," said Harry. "It looks like the entire operation against Voldemort was based there ..."  
  
There was an awkward silence. Harry looked at Ron, and gestured.  
  
"What?" asked Ron, looking startled. "Have I done something wrong?"  
  
"S'just *usually*," began Harry, "when I say Voldemort, you cringe and go pale and have a right go at me ..."  
  
"Oh ... right ... sorry," said Ron.  
  
He shifted his weight awkwardly, and Hermione gave him a funny look, as if unsure of something.  
  
Harry continued reading. "Other projects that the Order is alleged to have worked on venture into the realms of what we now know to be impossible. Perhaps the greatest secret of the Order was recently leaked to the Daily Prophet by an undisclosed source. Although our source refused to reveal his source, claiming that the source wished to remain anonymous to protect his source, we can now exclusively reveal within these pages that the Order of the Phoenix was working on a complicated and immensely dangerous magical process which would, if it had ever been perfected, have given the witch or wizard who made him or herself the subject of the spell, the ability to infiltrate the dreams of ... of ot ... of others ..." Harry's voice trailed off. The next part of the sentence read, 'and cause them actual bodily harm.'  
  
"Is everything okay?" asked Hermione.  
  
It was all becoming clear in Harry's mind. The hallucination he had had ... when he had been freezing to death at the foot of the Hog's Back Ridge ... when older versions of himself, Ron and Draco had visited him, each to deliver some kind of cryptic message. The adult version of Draco had morphed, before Harry's very eyes, into his nemesis, Lord Voldemort, who had then proceeded to cut Harry, very lightly, across the throat. Harry felt his fingers going slowly to his throat ... he could feel the ghost of a scar - even now.  
  
Then, when he had told Sirius about it ... shown him, Sirius had become very worried. There had been that meeting with Dumbledore, during which Sirius had been told to retrieve something from a vault at Gringotts and Gwyneth had been dispatched to Ireland.  
  
Was it possible Dumbledore was resurrecting the Order? Had Sirius been looking for the information the members ... his parents ... had left behind?  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"I think I'm going to be sick," said Harry weakly. And with that, he toppled sideways and fell off the bed.  
  
**************  
  
Someone was kissing him ... quite passionately too, but he was unsure just who it might be. He let out a slight moan, and opened his eyes.  
  
Ron and Hermione were bending over him, looking into his eyes with expressions of deep concern on their faces.  
  
"Are you okay, Harry?"  
  
"We thought you'd fainted."  
  
Harry pulled himself up into a sitting position. "I think that's what I did do," he said. "Was one of you snogging me just then?"  
  
Both of them shook their heads vehemently.  
  
"I should go for a walk ... get some air," said Harry.  
  
"That's probably a good idea," said Hermione.  
  
Ron remained in the dormitory, but Hermione decided to go with him, presumably, Harry thought, so that he didn't try and do anything stupid. It was long since dark outside; their feet crunched in the snow, the hems of their robes dragged through it. They proceeded slowly round to the walled gardens near the Great Hall.  
  
"Harry," said Hermione, after a few moments' silence had passed between them.  
  
"Mmph ... what?"  
  
"Are you quite cut up about this Order thing?" she asked.  
  
"Not really," said Harry. "It's just ... something that that book said - kind of made me put two and two together."  
  
"Want to talk about it?"  
  
"Not on your nelly!" exclaimed Harry.  
  
"Fair enough," Hermione stopped walking for a second, and then scurried forward to catch up with him. They were promenading leisurely through what was, in summer, a rather pleasant Tudor knot garden, all knee high privet hedges and fancy topiary. Except that being magical topiary, it moved around.  
  
"Your Mum and Dad were part of it, weren't they?" asked Hermione.  
  
Harry nodded. "Remember when we were in Dumbledore's office?"  
  
"Yeah, why?"  
  
"He said the name, Mozart, remember?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. She'd forgotten all about that. "Was that your Dad's codename?" she asked.  
  
"My Mum's," said Harry. "My Dad was Elgar. That bloke who died - Frank, Neville's Dad, he was in it too ... and Sirius, and Gwyneth, and Remus, and even Pettigrew."  
  
Hermione did not say anything to this.  
  
"All these people knew my parents," said Harry. He suppressed a slight chuckle. "Seems weird that, doesn't it?"  
  
He bent, picked up a twig that was lying prone on the gravel path, and hurled it into the distance.  
  
"I mean ... they all knew each other," Harry went on.  
  
They were approaching a bench.  
  
"Why don't we sit down."  
  
"Mmph," said Harry again. "Okay."  
  
They both sat down on it. Harry recognised it immediately as the bench upon which Draco had found him, when he had thought Ron was dead. It was only a couple of months ago, yet already it seemed like an absolute eternity. A wave of emotion burst over him. Life seemed to be moving so fast now ... everything was going so quickly. Blink, Harry thought, and you'll miss it.  
  
Hermione put her arm casually around his shoulders; a friendly gesture, nothing more, thought Harry. More's the pity, his brain added. *Another* thing he could remember was something Hermione had said to him back at the start of term ... something he continued to drag up and torture himself with when he was feeling down, even though he hadn't told anybody about this ... those words, 'sorry Harry, but I don't go for short guys in glasses.'  
  
Bah ... humbug.  
  
"You're freezing," she said, breaking his train of thought.  
  
"I'll be fine," said Harry, idly looking at Hermione's hair out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"If you do want to talk," Hermione said, "we're all here, and stuff."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Don't go running away," said Hermione.  
  
"I don't think I was in entirely my right mind," said Harry. "You needn't worry ... I think things are getting easier now. What day is it?"  
  
"Um, Friday," said Hermione, a little thrown by Harry's strange request. "December 1st, I think. Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow. You coming?"  
  
"That's two months ... give or take," said Harry, ignoring the question. "I should really have got over it by now, don't you think?"  
  
Hermione was, truth to tell, somewhat alarmed by Harry's abrupt brushing off of his problems ... even though she supposed it was something she should be seeing as a good development.  
  
"I guess," she said. "How about Ron?"  
  
"What about Ron?" replied Harry.  
  
Hermione considered this. "Well," she said. "Don't *you* think he's not entirely himself?"  
  
"He's just had his leg bitten off," said Harry. "I'd say he's not entirely himself ... but that'd be a bad joke, and in very poor taste. Besides, he'll never walk properly again. I'd think that's be a pretty good excuse for a spot of mental anguish ... say not?"  
  
"Why are you speaking like that?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Like what? Discomfort from you I sense, mmm? But force is strong within Ron," squeaked Harry. "Vague my worries are."  
  
"He seems to have changed," said Hermione, giggling. "He's different. Have you not noticed the way he looks at people?"  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Probably not ... you're a bloke," said Hermione, answering her own question in the process.  
  
"Hey, come on now!"  
  
"Look," said Hermione. "It's a well known fact that women are better at sensing things. People give off signals ... I can tell what people are doing, thinking sometimes. It's the reason why men get caught ogling women so much ..."  
  
"How do you know that?" asked Harry.  
  
"Have you ever caught a woman staring at another man?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I haven't been looking," said Harry.  
  
"But when you look at me ... it's blatantly obvious," said Hermione. "You give off all these funny signals. Mainly of the teenage hormone driven variety."  
  
"I do *not* look at you!" protested Harry.  
  
Hermione chuckled. "Harry, you in particular are very inept at hiding it. I can read you like a book."  
  
Harry made a face at her.  
  
"How does Ron fit into all this?" he asked.  
  
Hermione smiled awkwardly. "Lets just say ... he seems different."  
  
"How?" asked Harry.  
  
"Has he seemed ... funny?" asked Hermione. "Has he been dropping hints?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"You mean to say you haven't noticed?" she asked incredulously  
  
"Noticed what?" asked Harry, confused.  
  
"Harry ... I think Ron might ... I don't know ... it's probably nothing."  
  
Harry scooted closer. "Tell me what you think he might be doing."  
  
"It's nothing."  
  
"You think he's ..." Harry coughed. "Do you?"  
  
"No ... stupid lummox ... you mean he's ... um, more interested in this than this?" she made appropriate hand gestures.  
  
"Hermione! That's vulgar," said Harry. "And I certainly don't think Ron is at all like that. Neither should you do."  
  
"That isn't what I meant. I can be vulgar if I want," said Hermione. "I know just as much about sex as you do, Harry. If not more."  
  
Harry blushed. "Please ... you're being weird! I'm not meant to talk about sex with you ..."  
  
"Why ever not?" asked Hermione, primly.  
  
"Well," Harry coughed and spluttered indignantly ... "You're ... you're a ... you're a ..."  
  
"Sloth?" suggested Hermione. "Pogrebin? Patagonian hopping aardvark?"  
  
Harry coughed again. "You're a *girl*," he said, his voice fading to an almost imperceptible squeak.  
  
"I didn't catch that," said Hermione brightly. "Could you repeat yourself, please, Harry?"  
  
"You'reagirl," said Harry, very quickly. Hermione couldn't help but snicker as his pale face went a funny shade of red.  
  
"I know," said Hermione. "How astute of you to have spotted that. And just think, you only took a year longer than Ron. You're improving. Now ... I know all too well that you're still at that delicate age when sex is still something that you talk about after lights out. You need to develop a more mature attitude towards these things, Harry."  
  
"Mumblewumble," said Harry.  
  
"So you admit you *do* talk about it after lights out," said Hermione, who was enjoying herself immensely.  
  
"Wrstfgl," said Harry.  
  
"Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Gryffindor boys' dorm," sighed Hermione, sarcastically. "What *do* you do then? Discuss Wittgenstein and Jean-Paul Sartre over a snifter of port and a game of backgammon?"  
  
"No," said Harry, who had never even heard of Wittgenstein, and had the strangest feeling that Sartre was a type of Vauxhall.  
  
"Then you do talk about sex. Come on, Harry. Grow up," said Hermione. "You need to be able to discuss these issues with platonic friends of the ... um ..."  
  
"Female persuasion?"  
  
"Yes," said Hermione. "You're very sweet when you're being evasive, you know ..."  
  
Harry looked up hopefully; a loud rustling in the bushes behind them caused him to almost leap out of his skin. Hermione jumped in surprise, and turned round.  
  
"You haven't seen me, right?" said someone, in a drawling voice they both recognised.  
  
"Show yourself, Draco," said Hermione resignedly.  
  
Draco popped up from behind a bush. "Um ... hi," he said. He was evidently trying to look innocent, but was not succeeding in this task. The fact that there was a twig in his hair didn't help matters at all.  
  
"How long have you been eavesdropping on us, Malfoy?" asked Harry, angrily.  
  
Draco squirmed. "A minute or so," he said. "I'm meant to be hiding ..."  
  
"Who from?" asked Hermione.  
  
"The Slytherins," said Draco, as if this had been obvious all along. "I got wind they were planning to ... um ... play a trick on me."  
  
"What kind of trick?" asked Harry, guardedly.  
  
"If you must know, *Potter*," said Draco haughtily. "They were going to play a juvenile prank which involved ... um ... me ... being naked, somewhere public. In this case, the Great Hall during dinner. A minor thing, but I thought I'd better save myself the embarrassment."  
  
"You don't have much luck with the Slytherins, do you?" said Hermione.  
  
"*I* think it would be quite funny," said Harry.  
  
"You would ... now shut up," snapped Draco. "It's that whole ... me snogging you thing, you see?"  
  
"I see," said Hermione. "Not much we can do about that, is there?"  
  
"We could kiss again!" suggested Draco, perking up at the thought. Harry made 'I want to vomit' motions with his fingers.  
  
"I think not," said Hermione.  
  
"You said I was cute," said Draco grumpily.  
  
"I ... don't actually remember saying that," said Hermione hurriedly, wishing earnestly that the ground would just open up and swallow her ... or possibly Harry. Either would be good.  
  
"Of course, I could have ended up in Ravenclaw," said Draco. "Then it wouldn't matter. Trouble is, Father threatened to beat me to within an inch of my life if I got into Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, and if I got into Gryffindor, I think I was due to be cut out of my inheritance and disowned. Not that there is *any* inheritance any more," he added sadly.  
  
There was a very sullen silence.  
  
"I can just imagine Malfoy in Ravenclaw," smirked Harry.  
  
"If you must know, I was so terrified ... I ... um ... tricked the Sorting Hat," said Draco.  
  
Harry froze. "How did you manage ... I mean ... how?" he asked, his voice faltering.  
  
"Oh, the Sorting Hat isn't especially bright," drawled Draco airily. "It's very good at sensing what's in your head, and stuff like that, but if you don't like where it's going, all you have to do is you have to think very hard at it, and it gets confused and puts you in a different house. That's the only reason I got into Slytherin. It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw. Why, Potter," he added, "are you planning on transferring to Hufflepuff?"  
  
"Not exactly," said Harry.  
  
"So," Draco went on. "Are you guys any further on with that diary?"  
  
"What business is it of yours?" snapped Harry.  
  
Draco scrambled out of the bushes, and sat down on the bench in between Harry and Hermione. "Look," he said. "I found it ... I gave it to you. I think that gives me a right to know exactly what's going on. Yeah?"  
  
Harry seethed.  
  
Draco went on. "You can't go on hiding from me forever, Potter. You can't brush me off every time we pass by each other. You can't deal me a curt 'piss off.' And I'll tell you why that is. You're scared. You're scared of me ..."  
  
"Am not!"  
  
"Draco," interjected Hermione. "Please ..."  
  
"I saved your damn life in Naxcivan, Potter. If anyone owes me, then its you. And I'll be expecting you to be buying the drinks at school reunions when we're sixty to make up for it."  
  
Harry was flabbergasted. "But I thought you didn't want ..." he began.  
  
Draco cut in. "Ah, not true, Potter," he said. "Remember that day when you spoke to me in the woods? Can't have been long after we got back. Must have been almost smack bang in the middle of your little suicidal episode. Well, guess what; I wasn't feeling too hot that day myself. I'd just spent a good half hour reliving some of the most horrible memories of my life with that shrink, Sinead. I was pissed off, and there you were, trying to get through to me ... trying to make peace ... trying to be nice."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Wasn't it obvious that that wasn't the time to do that?" asked Draco. "Didn't you work it out yourself?"  
  
"Not really," said Harry, who was too stunned by Draco's arguments to come up with much of a response of his own. "You just walked out of there. You nearly pushed me in the bloody tarn, if I remember correctly."  
  
"God, you're so dim we could use you as an energy saving light-bulb," said Draco. "I want to make peace. I don't ... I ... you caught me at a bad time, and we've spent the last two months biting each other's heads off because of it. I don't want to fight with you, Harry. I don't want to be your friend, but after I saved your sodding life, I think I have a right to expect a little common courtesy."  
  
Harry stared, dumbstruck, at his shoes. Hermione said nothing.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Draco, hurriedly. "You didn't need to hear it."  
  
But to his surprise, when Harry next looked up, a smile was spreading across his gaunt features. "No," he said, after a momentary pause. "I'm sorry. I needed to be told that. Thanks, Malfoy."  
  
"My name is Draco," said Draco. He stuck out his hand, and Harry shook it.  
  
"About the diary?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Please?"  
  
Harry grinned again. "I don't know," he said. "It is kind of private, and Dumbledore did say I was to give it straight to Neville ..."  
  
"It's Neville's?" asked Draco.  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah ... sort of, by rights and all," he said. "It belonged to Algernon Longbottom ... he's a relative of Neville's Dad ... I'm not sure, I think an Uncle or something. He wrote it during the War."  
  
Draco listened with rapt attention as Harry told him the story as he knew it, through what Sirius had said the previous day, to Dumbledore's mysterious tale about the boy in the hospital, and finishing off with his discovery of the precise function of the Order of the Phoenix.  
  
When he had finished, Harry looked up. The moonlight was casting his face in shadows, and his eyes seemed to be pleading with Draco to believe what he was saying. It was all too confusing.  
  
"Good story," said Draco, at length. "And he was trying to get to you, Harry?"  
  
Harry nodded. "That's what Bellerophon said."  
  
Draco nodded. "I ought to go and see Bellerophon," he said. "I just ... I just worry that the other Slytherins will follow me, and be nasty to *him* too. He's my dragon - I don't need him to get upset."  
  
"He's upset already," said Harry. "I spoke to him a few nights ago ... on Tuesday. He thinks you've gotten bored with him ..."  
  
"No way!" exclaimed Draco. "No way. I just ... haven't seen him for ages. I was hoping we could go on holiday somewhere over Christmas."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, I haven't got any money anymore," said Draco. "And Bellerophon was always grumbling about how much he hates the weather. I thought I could take him somewhere warm for a week or two. Africa, maybe. No air fares, you see."  
  
"Sounds a good idea," said Hermione, who had been keeping quiet up until then, and watching the two boys talking with an air of the utmost satisfaction on her face.  
  
"Thanks," said Draco. He turned his attention back to Harry.  
  
"Bellerophon also said I had a mortal enemy," said Harry.  
  
"I would have thought that was obvious," said Draco, somewhat sarcastically.  
  
"A different mortal enemy to *that* one," said Harry.  
  
"Oh," said Draco. "Well ... it ... um ... it isn't me."  
  
"I wasn't accusing you," said Harry.  
  
Draco coughed and glanced swiftly around the garden ... as though he was watching out for something. Probably, he was just looking out for Slytherins ... but it was an ill-timed move, none the less.  
  
"Still," he went on, after about twenty-five seconds' pause. "What *about* that diary then, Harry?"  
  
Harry looked uncertain. "I'm not sure," he said. "It just, kind of freaked me out, if you see what I mean."  
  
Draco nodded. He did. Enough things had freaked him out just lately to last him a lifetime.  
  
"Is there anybody else we can ask?"  
  
"Dumbledore won't talk," said Harry. "Sirius ... Gwyneth ..."  
  
"Remus Lupin," said Hermione, softly.  
  
All three of them looked at one another.  
  
**************  
  
Harry opened his eyes ... was this a dream? It had become so difficult to distinguish. He had always been one of those lucky people who can tell when they are dreaming ... but in this case, he was not so sure.  
  
He too a look around himself. Considering the salient fact that, usually, he did *not* float around somewhere near the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, looking down on what appeared to be one of Hogwarts' numerable feasts ... he correctly surmised that he was ... indeed, dreaming. It was Halloween ... he thought ... the tables were laden with glowing Jack-o-Lanterns.  
  
That's good ... he thought. I'm upstairs, in the dorm ... in my bed. Ron's right next door. Nothing can hurt me ... he stopped.  
  
Except, of course, if the hunch he had was correct, things could hurt him.  
  
The Hall looked different. Harry couldn't quite tell exactly *what* was different about it. It just looked ... strange. Newer.  
  
He blinked, and in a flash, was sitting at what was clearly the Gryffindor table, in between two boys ... one of whom he didn't recognise, and the other one of who was ... was ...  
  
It was Ron.  
  
Harry glanced around the table. He didn't see a single face he recognised. Everyone was different. He looked for Hermione ... Neville, Fred and George. There was no sign of anybody. Even Lee Jordan's dreadlocks were conspicuously absent.  
  
Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, and the other boy turned quickly around.  
  
"Ron?"  
  
The other boy was *not* Ron. Definitely not. His face was thinner ... different. His eyes were slightly closer together ... his hair was redder, and his cheeks more freckly.  
  
"Charlie," said the boy.  
  
Harry goggled. "You're Charlie Weasley, right?"  
  
Charlie rolled his eyes. "Well, duh," he said.  
  
"What year are you in?" asked Harry.  
  
"Fifth," said Charlie. "Look ... who they hell are you? I don't recall seeing you around here before."  
  
Harry, however, was doing the calculations in his head, and wasn't listening.  
  
"I said, what's your name?" Charlie said.  
  
Harry broke off. "What ... oh, Harry Potter ... good to meet you," he said.  
  
Charlie looked at him even more strangely.  
  
"No you're not," he said. "Harry Potter is a ... oh look, there's Professor Trelawney. Wonder what she's doing down here?"  
  
Harry turned to look. Sure enough, the woolly-minded Divination Professor was making one of her rare appearances outside of her stifling classroom. She was gliding across the floor towards the teachers' table, looking somewhat like a Dalek as she went.  
  
Dumbledore was on his feet. "Sybil ... welcome ... what a pleasant surprise."  
  
Professor Trelawney did not appear to share the Headmaster's enthusiasm.  
  
"I am not here for my health, Headmaster," she was saying in a low, quiet whisper. "I was crystal gazing ..."  
  
Professor McGonagall, who was sitting two places further along, next to what looked like a younger version of Severus Snape, rolled her eyes.  
  
"Were you, indeed?" Dumbledore went on. "What did you see? Sybil ... you're very pale, are you all right?"  
  
Professor Trelawney glanced swiftly around the Hall, but all the students apart from Charlie Weasley and Harry were too busy with the feast to notice how agitated she appeared to be. Nevertheless, when she next spoke, her voice was whispered and hushed, and Harry couldn't hear a word of what she was saying. However, it looked like it was quite possibly very bad news indeed, for Dumbledore frowned.  
  
"Thank you, Sybil," he said, after a moment had passed.  
  
"I should return to my crystal ball, Headmaster," Trelawney said. "I have no need to trouble you further."  
  
Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "Yes ... thank you, Sybil. You've given us plenty to go on."  
  
Professor Trelawney glided away from the table. Harry observed that Professor McGonagall and Snape were both leaning in close. Dumbledore was talking to them about something.  
  
"Looks serious," said Charlie to Harry. "I hope nothing awful has happened."  
  
Dumbledore got to his feet, and, following a whispered consultation with Snape, swept from the room.  
  
"Erm ... what year, might it be?" Harry asked, a thought suddenly striking him: a most unpleasant thought, as well.  
  
"1981, why?" asked Charlie.  
  
Harry felt a distinct lurch in the pit of his stomach. "Excuse me," he said. "I think I might be in the wrong timeframe. It was nice to meet you, Charlie. I'll see you for the Quidditch World Cup ..."  
  
He got to his feet.  
  
"But that isn't till next summer ..." Charlie was saying. "England haven't even qualified yet."  
  
But Harry was gone.  
  
Dumbledore and Snape were standing out in the relative peace and calm of the Entrance Hall, having a whispered conversation. Harry, who wasn't entirely sure if they could see him or not, stood behind a suit of armour.  
  
"... might not be correct," Snape was saying.  
  
"We can't take that chance," said Dumbledore. "Who knows, Severus ... this could very easily be her first correct prediction in the sixty odd years she's been here."  
  
"I have very little patience with Divination," Snape replied testily.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "But do you honestly believe we can take this chance? If the security of the Order is at stake ... Severus ... they may already be dead."  
  
"And they may not," said Snape, frostily.  
  
"Strange things are afoot," said Dumbledore. "There's been no end of trouble down in London ... more attacks. People are dying. Innocent people, Severus. I want to protect the people who can help us defeat him."  
  
Snape nodded. "I quite understand your concern, Headmaster," he said. "But surely ... the Fidelius Charm ... "  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "It could be breached," he said. "Sirius may be James' best friend, but he's hardly a model citizen ..."  
  
Snape scowled at the mention of Sirius' name. Harry could feel his knees knocking together.  
  
"We already know there's a spy somewhere in the works," said Dumbledore. "My fear is that he might already have made his move. Check mate ... so to speak. If Harry is really what we think he is, then it is even more vital ..."  
  
"The blood tests proved nothing conclusive," said Snape. "Harry could be a perfectly normal boy."  
  
"That's why I submitted them to be re-analysed. Severus, to show such magic potential so early in life is highly unusual ..."  
  
Harry peered out from behind his suit of armour. If Harry is what they think he is? What am I? Blood tests?  
  
Dumbledore was shaking his head. "I should have forced them to come and stay here," he said. "I should never have let them go."  
  
Harry could hear footsteps on the marble floor. He looked hurriedly round, and then was forced to shrink quickly back into the shadows as Hagrid walked past, wrapped in what appeared to be an entire bearskin, swinging a brace of dead chickens in one hand.  
  
"Hagrid!" Dumbledore said. Hagrid stopped.  
  
"Headmaster?"  
  
"Why aren't you at the feast, my good man?" Dumbledore asked.  
  
Hagrid grinned through his beard, which, Harry noticed, had been even bushier and more extravagant back then. "Too much work to do, Headmaster," he said. "Something's been getting at the hen coops. They're not laying."  
  
Dumbledore looked at Hagrid. "I wonder ... would you mind doing something for us?"  
  
"Fire away," said Hagrid, clearly eager to be of service.  
  
"Hagrid ... how long does it take to get to Godric's Hollow from here?"  
  
"Given the best horse in the stables," said Hagrid. "Thirty minutes, if I went flat out all the way ..."  
  
"Go there," said Dumbledore. "Take whatever you need."  
  
"Headmaster ... is ... is there something wrong?" Hagrid asked.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes," he said. "I'm rather afraid that there might be. Go directly to James and Lily's house ... don't stop for anybody or anything. If everything's all right, then report back to me immediately."  
  
"If everything's all right, Headmaster?"  
  
"If they ... if they're alive," said Dumbledore. "I have a horrible feeling that even if you go as fast as you can, they may not be. If ... if something has gone wrong ... it means ... I don't know what it means," he was clearly in a state of some distress, thought Harry, "but nevertheless, if the boy is alive ... you are to take Harry to this address. By whatever means are possible."  
  
He had taken a notebook from inside his robes, torn a page out, and handed it to Hagrid, who folded it up without reading it, and tucked it into one of his voluminous pockets.  
  
"They're Muggles ... relatives," said Dumbledore. "They'll have to do for the time being."  
  
Harry could not see Hagrid's face, but he heard the Groundskeeper sniff ... as if he was about to start crying.  
  
"I'll arrange the wards," Dumbledore went on. "You are to meet me in Little Whinging at midnight tomorrow night ... that should give us plenty of time."  
  
"Very well," said Hagrid.  
  
"I pray to God that everything's all right," Dumbledore said. "Hagrid ... you must go now."  
  
"I'll saddle the horse now, Headmaster," Hagrid said.  
  
Harry sneezed, involuntarily. All three men stopped dead.  
  
"Who's there?" Dumbledore asked in a loud voice.  
  
Hagrid's eyes flitted about the room, alighting on Harry's suit of armour. Harry breathed in.  
  
"There's a boy behind that armour," said Hagrid. "I'll catch the little wretch ..."  
  
"You go, Hagrid," said Dumbledore. "I'll deal with it."  
  
Harry closed his eyes, and tried not to make a sound. Should he run ... or should he stay put? He could barely make up his mind.  
  
"You there ... come out at once!" Dumbledore was saying.  
  
"Some little wretch has been listening in," Snape said.  
  
Harry screwed up his face. Oh, *bugger*! Bugger, bugger, bugger.  
  
"Come *out*!" Dumbledore said, angrily.  
  
Harry bolted ... he dashed out from behind the suit of armour, heading for the staircase. He heard an enraged yell from Snape, and Dumbledore's livid shouts of, "Come back here now! Explain yourself!"  
  
Harry did not ... he took the stairs three at a time ... turned left at the top, and carried on running. He could hear footsteps, and Snape's voice.  
  
"Where have you gone, boy?"  
  
Harry turned left, then right, and found himself on the Charms corridor. Gathering his breath, he continued walking, occasionally chancing glances over his shoulder to check that Snape wasn't following him. His heart was beating fit to bust ... his breathing was fast and laboured, and he didn't notice when he walked slap bang into two people heading the other way, sending all three of them sprawling to the floor.  
  
"Watch where you're going!" shouted one of them.  
  
Harry disentangled his limbs from the other boy's, and picked himself up.  
  
"Harry!" a voice exclaimed.  
  
The next thing he knew, Hermione had thrown her arms around him, and was hugging him. "Oh, God, Harry!" she was practically sobbing. "We were so worried about you!"  
  
Harry was slightly taken aback by this. "What's going on?" he asked.  
  
"You vanished," said Draco's voice. Harry looked up into the familiar slate grey eyes of his former nemesis.  
  
"*I* vanished?" said Harry, incredulously. "No ... I'm dreaming. What are you doing in my dream?"  
  
Hermione and Draco gave Harry a very funny look. "This is reality, Harry," said Draco, after an awkward pause.  
  
"No ... this is a dream," said Harry. "I'm dreaming you ... I'm in my bed at Hogwarts ..."  
  
Hermione shook her head. "No ... Harry ... you disappeared."  
  
"This is *not* reality," Harry affirmed.  
  
Hermione appeared to be looking at something in her hands. "Either ... Draco ... this is really very weird."  
  
"It's been a weird evening for us," said Draco to Harry.  
  
"The bloody thing must be malfunctioning," said Hermione. "That's twice it's fouled up."  
  
"What thing?" asked Harry, intrigued.  
  
Hermione gave him a guarded look ... then she said, "We can't tell you. It's really dangerous for us even to talk to you. Harry ... will you answer a question for us?"  
  
"Fire away."  
  
"If you *are* dreaming ... then what day is it?"  
  
"October 31st, 1981," said Harry.  
  
Hermione's face paled. "No ... no, no," she said. "What day in ... um ... reality, Harry?"  
  
"Friday, December 1st," said Harry. "1995."  
  
Draco put his hand to his mouth. "Christ, Hermione. This is *really* dangerous now."  
  
"Harry ... we should really go," said Hermione. "I want you to close your eyes ... and then open them again in a minute."  
  
Harry was about to comply with this rather bizarre request, when another voice boomed out.  
  
"Ha ... caught you!"  
  
Snape!  
  
"Oh crap," said Draco. "What's he doing here?"  
  
Harry turned around guiltily. Snape was walking towards them along the Charms Corridor, his robes flowing out behind him.  
  
"You look well, sir," said Draco, perkily.  
  
Snape blanked him. "You," he pointed at Harry. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Spying on teachers? Do you not care how this looks ..."  
  
Harry observed Snape appeared to be squinting.  
  
"Who *are* you, anyway?" he asked, craning closer. "I don't recognise you at all ... James?"  
  
Harry took a step backwards.  
  
"James ... what have you done to yourself? You look years younger ... whatever is that *thing* on your forehead?" Snape took a step closer. "Should I tell Dumbledore to stop Hagrid? Is everything all right?"  
  
Harry did not reply.  
  
Snape stepped into the light. Then he stopped, and appeared to cough. "Lucius?"  
  
Draco looked absolutely horrified.  
  
"Get ready to run," said Hermione.  
  
But a wicked grin was spreading across Harry's face.  
  
"Professor Snape?" he asked.  
  
"Of course," said Snape. "Don't you recognise me? We only saw each other the other week, in Dublin, for the Phoenix meeting ..."  
  
"Professor Severus Snape?" asked Harry.  
  
Hermione tried to tug at his robes.  
  
"Yes," said Snape.  
  
"You're a jerk, Snape. A complete arsehole," said Harry.  
  
"Wuh?" began Snape.  
  
"Run for it!" yelled Hermione.  
  
Harry turned and instantly ...  
  
... was somewhere else. A wood, this time, with trees, obviously, all around him. They were tall oaks with thick trunks, mostly. Harry could smell that fresh, earthy smell that comes from heavy rain. The sodden leaves crunched underneath his trainers.  
  
Was this still his dream? He honestly had no idea.  
  
He could see the lighted windows of a house glowing through the trees, and so decided it might be a good idea to head in that general direction. He started walking, stumbling blindly between the trees, for the ground here ... wherever here actually was, was very uneven indeed.  
  
His foot snagged on a tree root, and he went tumbling to the ground, landing face down in a muddy puddle. As he picked himself up, wet, cold and shivering, he wished himself anywhere but wherever he was.  
  
It then dawned on him that he was standing by the edge of a narrow forest road, barely wide enough to take a single car comfortably, it was, nevertheless, metalled.  
  
Lightning flashed overhead. Instinctively, Harry began counting ... one one thousand ... two two thousand ... three three thousand ... four four thousand ... thunder.  
  
Four kilometres, he thought to himself.  
  
He was also, he noticed, standing directly opposite the house whose windows he had seen not two minutes earlier. It was a small, ivy-covered cottage, with a dry stone wall enclosing a herb garden filled with exotic looking pieces of sculpture ... statues and so on.  
  
There was a single light on in one of the windows, and through the open curtains, he could see what was going on inside. There was a woman, quite alone, wearing a very expensive looking, slinky, black dress, setting places at a table. She was polishing cutlery, wiping the plates dry. Then she moved on to fold the napkins. Harry watched, entranced ... she was beautiful.  
  
The woman took what looked like a taper from the sideboard and lit two candles, placing them in the middle of the table. Then she stood back, admiring her handiwork.  
  
Harry watched as she went through into the kitchen, which was at the front of the house, on the opposite side of the green front door, and switched on lights in there. Something appeared to be cooking on the stove. The woman lifted the lid off a casserole dish, and tasted the contents, before disappearing.  
  
It started to rain.  
  
When the woman appeared again, in the dining room, not two minutes later, she was cradling a baby in her arms.  
  
Harry suddenly recognised the woman. It was all he could do to keep himself leaping from his hiding place. That baby was him!  
  
Lily Potter appeared to be rocking baby Harry to sleep ... she was definitely singing something to him. The infant made a grab for her hair, and missed.  
  
Harry bit his bottom lip hard.  
  
... so horribly unfair ...  
  
He felt the beginnings of tears trickling down his face. He felt like James Stewart in 'It's A Wonderful Life' when he gets to spy on his family ... except, of course, Harry didn't know this was how he was feeling.  
  
A car engine ... close! Harry shrank back into the undergrowth, and watched as headlights on full beam rounded a bend in the road. The car in question ... an elderly looking Ford saloon, red ... with a black vinyl roof, pulled onto the grass verge at the side of the road. A young man ... Harry's father, clambered out. In one hand he held a bottle of something, wrapped in paper. He opened the back door, and when he emerged again, was holding an extravagant bouquet of flowers, and a box of Black Magic chocolates.  
  
James walked up to the front gate, pushed it open, and mounted the steps to the cottage's front door. Lily, who had clearly seen him coming, opened it. For a second, Harry heard delighted laughter ... his father's voice enquiring. "Did you settle Harry yet?"  
  
The front door closed. Harry, judging it was safe, and not caring how wet he got, emerged from the undergrowth. He crossed the road, his trainers silent on the slick surface, the water trickling down his glasses obscuring his vision. He put a hand out, touched the car on its tailgate. The metal was cold under his creeping fingers.  
  
His bottom lip was now quivering full on as he stood there, outside this house ... which he knew was his. The car even had bumper stickers ... two, one of them a Brittany Ferries GB sticker, and the other read, 'Keep Your Distance ... Magic Baby on Board.'  
  
Harry shuddered ... sank to his knees on the wet tarmac, resting his head against the back of the car. This was their car ... *his* car ... it was silly ... but this was something he was connected to. He could feel the tears pouring down his face. He choked back sobs.  
  
Someone inside had put on an LP and turned it up loud.   
  
'You've done it all, you've broken every code  
and pulled the Rebel to the floor  
You spoilt the game, no matter what you say  
for only metal - what a bore!  
Blue eyes, blue eyes, how come you tell so many lies?  
  
Come up and see me, make me smile  
Or do what you want, run on wild  
  
There's nothing left, all gone and run away  
Maybe you'll tarry for a while  
It's just a test, a game for us to play  
win or lose, it's hard to smile  
Resist, resist, it's from yourself you have to hide'  
  
Harry choked.  
  
'Come up and see me, make me smile  
Or do what you want, run on wild  
  
There ain't no more, you've taken everything  
from my belief in Mother Earth  
How can you ignore my faith in everything  
when I know what Faith is and what it's worth  
Away, away, and don't say maybe you'll try  
  
Come up and see me, make me smile  
Or do what you want, run on wild.'  
  
The tears were coursing down his cheeks now. He crouched, pathetic, on the wet road, his robes getting drenched. I thought I was over this ... he thought. This was over. This is behind me.  
  
So why does it *keep* coming back. Why does my head do this to me? Harry shuddered, pillowed his head on his hands, felt himself shudder as blind, enraged fury swept through his body.  
  
The music changed.  
  
It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.  
  
The volume was turned down. Through the pouring rain, Harry heard the sound of a telephone ringing.  
  
It's not fair.  
  
The music was still swirling around his head.  
  
It's not fair.  
  
A voice, shouting. "Darling. That was Sirius. He's just leaving now. He'll be here in an hour. He's picking up Peter and Remus on the way!"  
  
Harry did not hear his mother's reply.  
  
Then a thought hit him. If he was to keep seeing his parents like this ... then oughtn't he to be pleased? What if this was some sort of ... blessing? Shouldn't he be making the most of it? Shouldn't he be enjoying it?  
  
He got to his feet ... his robes were soaked through, and the knees of his trousers were filthy with grit from the road and mud from the forest. He pushed open the garden gate, and stood for a second on the threshold of the garden, looking around. The statues seemed to be watching him. He felt a shiver running down his spine.  
  
Harry stepped forwards, his footfall almost silent on the wet paving slabs, hair matted and dangling in front of his tear-filled eyes. He mounted the steps, and then stood, stock still in front of the cottage's door. There was a brass knocker looking at him.  
  
"You're a mess," it said.  
  
Harry closed his hand over the knocker, and rapped it smartly against the wood four times. The knocker squeaked at him angrily.  
  
"Sirius ... already?" came a voice. Harry heard the sounds of footsteps on the floor inside, and then the sound of the door being opened. It swung slowly aside. His Father was standing there, still wearing his work clothes; a Muggle suit that, despite being well cut and made in Italy, still looked as if it was being worn by someone who was used to flowing robes. The trousers were flared quite extravagantly at the knee, and over an orange shirt he wore a kipper tie in stripes of pink and green.  
  
"Ah," he said, upon catching sight of Harry. "I was wondering where you'd got to?"  
  
"You were expecting me?" gasped Harry.  
  
James Potter gave him a very quizzical look. "Well," he said. "I hardly thought ... what *have* you been doing to yourself, Harry? You're covered in grime."  
  
Lily appeared in the doorway. "Yuck," she said. "It's Harry." She was holding the baby. The baby Harry could tell was himself, which gurgled at him and made a grab for his glasses. "If it was summer I'd make you stand in a washing up bowl in the garden and turn a hosepipe on you. Go and have a bath before Sirius gets here."  
  
Harry stared at her bizarrely.  
  
"Cat got your tongue?" she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Harry followed her, still dripping mud all over the clean floors. She was singing to Baby Harry, who was still giggling to himself.  
  
"You still here?" she asked.  
  
"Ungh," said Harry.  
  
"Lord spare us," said Lily Potter, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. "Can we get any kind of response out of you that doesn't end in a grunt?"  
  
She clouted him round the back of the head. Baby Harry shrieked with laughter.  
  
"What's for ... um ... dinner?" asked Harry, peering over her shoulder. She was patting the baby on its back, and a long string of drool had detached itself from the child's mouth and was heading in the direction of Lily's rather expensive evening gown.  
  
"Casserole," she said. "I know it's not your favourite ... but it was either that or get your Dad to do one of his specials," she shuddered.  
  
"That's fine," said Harry, almost laughing, partly because he was so happy, and partly because Baby Harry was sticking his tongue out at him. "Really, I don't mind what we eat."  
  
Was this actually a dream at all? An indescribable feeling of elation - such elation as Harry had never known before, seemed to be sweeping through his bloodstream. It was all he could do to keep from doing a little dance.  
  
"I ... er ... do love you, Mum, you know," he said, gingerly putting his arm round Lily's shoulder.  
  
"What has got into you?" asked Lily. "You're being almost polite. Perhaps that school is finally knocking some sense into you. Now, go and have a bath before I change my mind about letting you stay up. There're dress robes on your bed, and I ironed your ducky socks especially."  
  
"Thanks, Mum."  
  
Harry slipped out of the kitchen, and was just hunting around for a staircase, when James called from the other room.  
  
"Let me show you something."  
  
Harry pushed open the door, and stepped into the living room. Squashy chairs and sofas in bright, primary colours were ranged around a fireplace. There was a telephone in the shape of a yellow cat on the mantelpiece, and an enormous TV set with wood panelling on the sides. The carpet was covered in black and white swirls. The seventies had *happened* to this room.  
  
James was standing over by an old JVC record player, carefully extracting the black, polished vinyl record from within its protective casing.  
  
"You'll like this," he said. "I used to dance to this with your Mum at the Hogwarts balls. When she'd let me."  
  
He blew dust off the record. Harry crouched down on the floor, and rifled through his Father's record collection. To his dismay, he found it to be filled with nothing but seventies kitsch ... Abba, Slade and so on. There was nothing dated later than 1981.  
  
"Do you have anything that isn't crap, Dad?" asked Harry.  
  
"Like what?" James said, placing the record on the turntable, and lowering the stylus over the top. It slowly began to spin around.  
  
Harry didn't really know any bands. In real life, Dudley had always punched him in the stomach, or at the very least attempted to garrotte him, whenever Harry had gone anywhere near his stereo system. He only really knew magical ones ... and that was through listening to WWN when staying with the Weasleys' over the holidays.  
  
"Weird Sisters?" he suggested. "They're good."  
  
James shook his head. "Never heard of them," he said. "Newfangled rubbish, I'll be bound. Now ... forgot to turn my amplifier on. Excuse me."  
  
He flicked a switch.  
  
'Look out! Look out! your mama will shout, you might as well go home.  
You say my bed gets into your hair so give me back my comb.  
But you, you make things that get along turn out so wrong.   
Do-ron do-ron you'd better rock on, the band might play our song.....  
  
See my baby jive, see my baby jive.   
She hangs on to me and she really goes, wo-ow wo-ow wo-ow.  
See my baby jive, such a lazy jive.  
Well everyone you meet coming down the street just to see my baby jive......   
  
That tenor horn it's turning me on, you drop down to his knees.  
Whoa boy that sax is calling me back, this dog 'aint got no fleas.  
But you, you dance all the guys up town into the ground.  
Do-ron do-ron you gotta rock on. Your daddy 'aint coming home.....  
  
See my baby jive, see my baby jive.   
She hangs on to me and she really goes, wo-ow wo-ow wo-ow.  
See my baby jive, such a lazy jive.  
Well everyone you meet coming down the street just to see my baby jive......   
  
Too bad your nag it's driving me mad, the top down on my car.  
I do suppose that everyone knows exactly who you are.  
But you, you make things that get along turn out so wrong.  
Do-ron do-ron you'd better rock on, the band might play our song.....   
  
See my baby jive, see my baby jive.   
She hangs on to me and she really goes, wo-ow wo-ow wo-ow.  
See my baby jive, such a lazy jive.  
Well everyone you meet coming down the street just to see my baby jive...... '  
  
Harry woke up. The words of the song, and his parents fading into the background as he drew back the curtains of his four poster. Ron was already awake, sitting up in bed and reading. Light was pouring in through the windows.  
  
"Sleep well?" Ron asked, licking his finger methodically before turning the page. The book appeared to be entitled 'How to Control Armies of the Night.'  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess I did."  
  
**************  
  
"... meanwhile, the death toll from the Wigtown train crash has now risen to thirty. In the news today; the International Floo Powder network has crashed completely, leaving as many as ten thousand witches and wizards stranded in fireplaces throughout the world. Technicians have been working around the clock to fix the fault, believed to be the work of saboteurs. A helpline has been set up to advise those affected by the crisis. But our hearts must go out this morning to the families of the ten victims of what is now being referred to as the Montrose Massacre. It appears that ... as of ten o'clock this morning, armed wizards walked into a packed shopping centre, murdering ten people, amongst them two children, with the Avada Kedavra curse. The Ministry of Magic acted swiftly, but the culprits remain at large, and it is feared they could strike again. Here at WWN, we'll keep you updated throughout the day on the new Campaign of Terror being waged against our people by the Dark Lord's followers. We're ... we're going to go over to the sports desk now, for a preview of today's Quidditch fixtures ... and I believe several matches have been cancelled, David?"  
  
**************  
  
Harry helped Ron into his woollen over cloak. Ron was standing by one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor Common Room, propped up against one of the posts, his left hand gripping his crutches so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.  
  
They looked, thought Hermione, like a war-wounded colonel and his faithful batman, preparing to go for an afternoon drive in the country.  
  
"Gloves," said Ron. Harry handed them over.  
  
Hermione watched with interest. Ron wobbled precariously as he momentarily let his crutches go to put his gloves on. Fortunately, the body stabilising charms that she and Ginny had put on him earlier seemed to be holding.  
  
"Ready," said Ron, taking up his crutches again. "Shall we go?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Say if you need anything," he said.  
  
"I'll be fine," said Ron, pulling his hat down over his fringe.  
  
Ginny, who was wearing Ron's orange Chudley Cannons hat, linked arms with her brother.  
  
"Sure you're up to this?" she asked. "I'll stay with you ... if you'd like."  
  
Ron shook his head. "No way," he said resolutely. "This is the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas. I have presents to buy."  
  
It took them quite a while to meander all the way from Gryffindor Tower all the way down to the Entrance Hall, what with Ron slowing them up, tottering along on his crutches ... his left leg dangling uselessly. And despite all this, thought Hermione, despite all that he'd endured - he still had a broad grin on his face as he fumbled awkwardly down the stairs, being held up by Harry and Ginny, his crutches floating along ahead of them.  
  
Draco was waiting for them in the cloisters, looking upwards at the leaded window panes of the teachers' quarters. The ornamental fishpond had frozen over, and snow covered the bare bushes that, in summer, were a riot of colour. He was stomping his feet, hugging himself tightly in order to keep warm. The temperature had not gone above three degrees for about a week now, and the entire area was starting to feel the effects of the cold snap. Rumour had it that the railway line was blocked at Hogg Bridge, a couple of miles down the track, where the line crossed the rushing beck on a stone bridge that was constantly threatening to collapse.  
  
"Thought you weren't going to turn up," said Draco huffily, as they approached. His breath condensed into a cloud of steam before his face as he spoke.  
  
"It took us a while to get downstairs," said Hermione.  
  
"Can we hurry up then?" asked Draco. "It's perishing cold out here."  
  
If it was cold up at Hogwarts, then down in the valley where Hogsmeade was, it was even colder. The freezing fog of the previous night had still not lifted, and the crystal clear blue skies that prevailed over Hogwarts soon gave way to dense grey cloud. As they descended down the winding road into the village, it was hard to even make out the shapes of the buildings.  
  
The High Street was crowded, however, mostly with Hogwarts students enjoying the chance for some relative freedom. Groups of them congregated on the steps of the clock tower in the village square. Hermione conjured up one of her speciality fires, which she kept in an old Robinson's jam jar, in order to keep their digits from falling off.  
  
Harry and Draco wanted to go straight over to the boarding house where Remus had taken lodgings for the time being, but Ron said he needed to buy his Christmas presents, and so, for a couple of hours, they trailed round all the likely looking shops, where Ron examined the price labels and clicked his tongue in annoyance. Then, of course, Ginny spotted a nice set of dress robes in the window at Gladrags, and they had to pop in there, and when they got in, Hermione spotted a lovely pashmina, charmed to keep the wearer warm, and Ginny ended up trying on the dress robes, whilst Harry and the boys sat in armchairs outside the changing rooms and talked in loud voices about how awful the clothes were, which prompted an assistant to scold them.  
  
"... genuine Branfords indeed," they heard her mutter tearfully, as she retreated behind the counter to keep an eye on them.  
  
Then it was on to Honeydukes, who were giving out free samples of a new kind of gobstopper, which stifled all conversation between them for some twenty minutes as they rolled the enormous sweets about on their tongues, trying to wear them down. And after the sugar infusion had made them feel all bilious, they headed over to the Three Broomsticks, where they found Hagrid downing several pints of mulled mead in the company of Sirius and Gwyneth, who were shooting one another passionate looks across the table.  
  
"Those two at it again?" asked Ron, absent-mindedly peeling the label off his bottle of Butterbeer.  
  
"When's the wedding, Harry?" Hermione asked, tugging open a particularly stubborn packet of hedgehog flavour crisps.  
  
Harry shrugged. "I don't know, exactly," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "I think they wanted it to be around New Year's ... or just before Christmas. Some time around then."  
  
"We'd better think of buying them a present," said Hermione.  
  
Harry looked at Sirius. He was munching on a pickled egg, and showed no sign at all at having noticed the children coming into the pub. Gwyneth was talking to Madam Rosmerta about something, whilst she polished the glasses. Two other people Harry didn't recognise were pulling pints and making change for the patrons.  
  
"I'm not sure what sort of thing Sirius likes?" said Harry.  
  
Ron looked up from his drink. "Didn't you say he had a motorbike?" he asked. "How about a leather bomber jacket, or a pair of gloves."  
  
Harry looked thoughtful. "I've never actually seen his motorbike," he mused. "I'm not sure if he even *knows* where it is. Probably languishing somewhere."  
  
"Cufflinks," suggested Draco, apropos of nothing.  
  
Everyone looked at him oddly.  
  
"Well, it's what my Father got on occasions like this," said Draco. "A pair of solid gold cufflinks."  
  
He scowled at some long forgotten memory that had clearly been dragged up. "I got my first cufflinks for my Christening," he said.  
  
"*You* were Christened!" Ron exclaimed.  
  
Draco went very red. "Yes ... why ... weren't you?" he asked.  
  
Ron nodded. "Well ... yes," he said. "But I didn't think your parents would've bothered with you."  
  
Draco looked offended. "Being into the Dark Arts, you mean?" he said.  
  
"No ... not like that," said Ron. "What were the cufflinks like?"  
  
"They were little gold D's," said Draco. "I still have them somewhere. Very tasteful."  
  
"What would you want with cufflinks?" asked Ron. "Didn't they get you anything ... normal ..."  
  
"At Birthdays and Christmas," said Draco. "You don't give the baby things it actually wants when you Christen it ... that'd be cheating ... you give it things like cufflinks and engraved napkin rings that it can appreciate later in life. *I* was an adorable baby," he added.  
  
Ron sniggered.  
  
"Anyway ... I think you should get cufflinks," said Draco haughtily.  
  
"How about a paperweight?" said Hermione, out of the blue.  
  
"Why would Sirius want to weigh paper?" Ron asked, incredulously.  
  
Hermione raised her eyes heavenward. "No, silly. A paperweight ... it's a heavy thing that you put on papers to stop them blowing around."  
  
"A Muggle thing?" asked Ron.  
  
"I think so."  
  
"We have magic to do that sort of thing," said Ron, grinning as if he had just won a decisive victory. "Honestly, Hermione, for someone so bright you aren't half dim-witted sometimes."  
  
"Not a paperweight ... not cufflinks ..." said Harry.  
  
"How about port and stilton," suggested Draco. "That's classy. They used to say that whomsoever the Malfoys wished to destroy, they first bought port and stilton ... like the kiss of death thing in the Mafia ... come to think of it ..." he trailed off.  
  
Ron sniggered again.  
  
"Packet of co ..."  
  
"Ron!"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Harry lifted his bottle to his lips and drank deeply.  
  
"A lifetime's subscription to Practical Parenthood?" asked Hermione. "It's full of tips on feeding times, nappies and sleeping patterns."  
  
"That's boring," said Harry.  
  
"It's practical," said Hermione. "Babies will be coming to them, Harry. Hey ... if they adopt you, you can have little brothers and sisters. How cute."  
  
"I'm *not* letting them adopt me," said Harry, firmly.  
  
Draco sipped his drink. "How about a Faberge egg?"  
  
"Something they'll cherish forever," said Ron. "Photo albums. How about framing some photos?"  
  
"Of what?" asked Harry, sarcastically.  
  
"You?"  
  
Harry went red. "I'm not very photogenic," he said. "Besides ... I don't really have any photos of me. And what would they want with that?"  
  
"They could put it on their mantelpiece," said Hermione. "I bet you were even more adorable than Draco as a baby ..."  
  
"Not possible," huffed Draco. "I won the Bath and North-East Somerset Regional Bumper Bonnie Baby Competition in 1980 *and* 1981."  
  
"Shame," said Ron. "The other babies must really have been something to look at. Who were you up against? The offspring of Attila the Hun and Lord David the Unattractive of Dunbar?"  
  
"I don't *have* any baby photos," said Harry sorely.  
  
"More's the pity," said Hermione. "I should have liked to have seen them."  
  
Draco drained his bottle of Butterbeer, and then checked his watch. "We'd better get a move on if we want to talk to Professor ... um ... I mean Remus," he said. "They'll be expecting us back up at the school in an hour or so."  
  
**************  
  
Remus Lupin had taken rooms in a small boarding house at the far, and cheaper, end of the High Street. The house itself was half timbered ... built sometime around the 1580s, it was *definitely* showing its age. The beams were knotted and gnarled and peppered with woodworm. Over the years, new bits had been added on at the sides ... several bay window extensions, propped up by railway sleepers overhung the small herb patch at the side overlooking the river. There was a small patio, with a bench and a swing seat that had almost rusted away ... and on the river itself, tied to a tree stump, a small rowing boat. It looked like it might have been quite pleasant to sit out there during the summer, thought Draco. Harry thought, as they pushed open the feeble garden gate, that overall, the house was a fairly close attempt at recreating the Burrow, the Weasley family home.  
  
The front garden had a small, ornamental fish pond sunk into the middle of it, and there were, despite the cold, goldfish swimming about in it. There was also a statue of a nymph, whose eyes turned to follow them as they walked up the front path. Draco gave the bell pull a sharp tug, and immediately, a loud, seemingly ceaseless clanging echoed through the entire house.  
  
For a moment, all was silence. Then Draco heard the sound of someone fussing over to the door, complaining in a loud and almost incomprehensible Geordie accent that, "A gentle tug will suffice ... no need to yank it off!"  
  
The door slammed open, and the voice said. "Yes? What?"  
  
Draco looked around for the voice, and found his gaze drawn inexorably downwards to where a tiny woman ... barely reaching up to his kneecaps, but clearly of rapidly advancing years, was glaring at him as if Draco was a cat that had fouled her pumpkin patch.  
  
"What do you want?" she asked. "You selling anything?"  
  
"Er, no," said Draco, "actually, we're not. We've come to see Professor Remus Lupin ..."  
  
"We have an appointment," said Hermione, chiming in.  
  
The woman huffed. "I dare say you do," she said. "You swear on the Good Book you ain't selling no encyclopaedias?"  
  
"Promise," said Draco.  
  
The Landlady, on the other hand, seemed to want to get a response from the other four, and looked in turn to Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry, each of whom nodded and showed her their hands to prove the absence of fifteen volume masterworks.  
  
"I'll just get him," she said bitterly. "I *suppose* you'll be wanting some tea."  
  
"Not if it's too much trouble," blurted out Hermione, drowning out Draco's rather muted answer of 'yes.'  
  
"Well, it is," she harrumphed. "I have to get my mangling done. You can make it yourself. Teabags are in the tin with 'A Present From Margate' written on the lid."  
  
They trooped obediently inside the house, each taking care to scrape the snow off their shoes and onto the doormat, which sighed and muttered to itself as they did so.  
  
"Perfectly good boot-scraper outside," it muttered. "I will need washing now. And I just got my bristles re-laid ..."  
  
The Landlady called up the stairs. "Lupin. People to see you!"  
  
Then she turned back to the children and said. "I'll leave you to it then. *If* you'll excuse me."  
  
She disappeared into a small room, and slammed the door shut behind her. Draco heard the sound of bolts being drawn across it, and seconds later, there was the sound of something like a cat being dunked in soapy water.  
  
Draco yelped as something seized him by the scruff of the neck. He turned round to find that several golden hands, fastened onto the wall at about head height, had taken hold of their coats, and were trying to hang them up. Cursing himself for making himself look so foolish ... especially in front of *Weasley* he struggled out of the arms of his over cloak.  
  
There was a clattering of feet on the stairs, and Remus stuck his head over the banisters.  
  
"You met Mrs Cropredy?" he asked.  
  
Draco nodded sheepishly. Harry spoke up. "Yes ... we ... um ... did," he said.  
  
Remus smiled at them. "Well," he said. "I won't say she's an old battleaxe but has a heart of gold really ... because she doesn't. She is ... quite literally, the Landlady from Hell. She used to be an agent of Satan but got disqualified for shoving in the lunch queue. There are *some* things that get even demons pissed off. Nobody here can be bothered to banish her, so she spends her life being petty and lobbing eggs at the neighbours when they're out."  
  
"Why's she ... so ... um ... short?" asked Draco.  
  
"She got on the wrong end of a Shrinking Charm," said Remus. "Fancy a cup of tea?"  
  
Draco nodded. So did the others.  
  
"Follow me into the kitchen then," said Remus.  
  
The teabags were indeed kept in a rather ugly tin, painted with one of those fifties style idealised pictures of rosy cheeked children in colourful clothes exploring rock pools with shrimping nets.  
  
"She counts them," Remus said. "So you'd better not take too many. And watch out for the ones with the drawstrings ... those are from Zonko's."  
  
Hermione let out a sudden shriek. She had picked up one of the Zonko's teabags too late, and the little string around the top for squeezing out the liquid had tied itself around her middle finger and wouldn't let go.  
  
"Told you," said Remus. "It'll drop off in a minute."  
  
They made the tea, pillaged the biscuit tin, and then followed Remus back upstairs to his room before Mrs Cropredy finished mangling the cat.  
  
**************  
  
Remus had not quite worked out what they all wanted to come and see him about. He had been puzzling vaguely over it since he received Harry's owl over his breakfast that morning ... and none of the children were letting on anything as they trooped upstairs and allowed themselves to be shown into Remus bedroom.  
  
It was quite a large bedroom, up on the third floor and away from Mrs Cropredy's prying eyes, with a view out of one of the side windows looking up the High Street towards the Market Square. There was an ancient four poster bed, covering up a large pentagram carved into the floorboards, and a small dresser with a mirror, upon which stood a three litre bottle of hair gel. There were four armchairs spread around the fireplace, where there was already a small fire burning merrily away, and a coffee table, upon which were spread several back issues of Lycanthrope's World.  
  
Remus bade them all sit down ... there weren't enough spaces for all of them, so Ginny ended up perched precariously on the arm of Ron's chair. Remus flopped down in his favourite seat nearest the table. His trousers rode up around his ankles, giving the impression that he had somehow grown out of them.  
  
"Now," said Remus, as they blew on their scalding hot tea to cool it down. "I'm still somewhat in the dark as to exactly what you wanted to see me about."  
  
Hermione, however, had spotted something hanging on the wall. Remus turned to see what it was. A box of campaign medals ... Remus took them everywhere with him, he always had done.  
  
"My Father's," he said, simply.  
  
"What did he get them for?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Fighting," said Remus. "He was a pilot ... he fought for the Muggles during their War ... in North Africa, I think."  
  
"I often wondered," said Harry, "what we did in the War ..."  
  
"We?" asked Remus.  
  
"Us ... wizards and witches," said Harry. "I mean ... Dumbledore said ... and then my Dad ... when I saw him ..." he trailed off, as if the memory was still very painful for him. Hermione put an arm round his shoulders.  
  
"Well," said Remus. He got up, walked over to the display cabinet, and took it off the wall. Then he crossed back over to where the kids were sitting, and sat back down in his armchair, handing the case to Harry. Harry took it with outstretched hands, and surveyed the shining medallions within. To each one was attached a coloured ribbon. Several of them bore inscriptions in Arabic and Cyrillic. One of them had George V on it ... another one a crossed hammer and sickle emblem.  
  
"Some witches and wizards are honourable, Harry. Don't look so surprised," said Remus. "Some of us could see what was happening. Some of us fought for the Muggles ... with the Muggles, I should say," he corrected himself, glancing at Hermione, who didn't seem to have noticed. "My Father was one of them. Flew Spitfire fighters for the RAF ... in Africa ... and later he provided aerial cover for the Barents Sea Convoys ... that's where he got the Russian medals from."  
  
Harry handed the case to Ron, who regarded it with equal fascination.  
  
"So did your Grandfather, Harry," said Remus. "He trained as a pilot, initially so as to become a source of information for the Ministry of Magic within the Muggle Air Force. Then he got good at it. The Muggles noticed his potential ... he was shunted through the ranks ... " Remus broke off. "The rest is altogether more ... interesting stuff," he said, quietly.  
  
"How come?" asked Harry.  
  
"Perhaps I should give you some background," said Remus. "Times were hard for us then. Perhaps it's right you *should* know about it."  
  
"I'm listening," said Draco, earnestly. Remus cast his eyes about the group. Each and every one of them was looking at him with something approaching genuine interest in the tale. Remus suddenly doubted his ability to tell it. This was just going on stuff James Potter had told him, back when they had been kids at Hogwarts themselves. He didn't know if the story, which was without any shadow of a doubt a fantastic one, would survive his reinterpretation of it. And then he thought, what the hell?  
  
"You've not lived through anything like this," said Remus, quietly, looking at the medals. The candlelight glittered off their brightly polished surfaces. "You couldn't know. *I* haven't lived through anything like this. I mean, the Troubles ... the first fight against Voldemort - that was bad ... that ... but this must have been a million times worse."  
  
An eerie feeling filled the room, and save for the ticking of the carriage clock, all was silent.  
  
Remus sipped his tea, and then spoke. "People wanted to get out."  
  
"I'm sorry?" said Hermione.  
  
"Imagine something for me," said Remus. "Imagine you are living in a police state ... a police state where people who are different are eliminated, where there is no quarter, no relief, no let up. No exceptions. Imagine then that there is something different about you. Imagine ... well ... imagine you're a wizard, living in a state where the slightest deviation from the norms the government has laid down can and will result in your death."  
  
Harry felt a chill travel down his spine.  
  
"Not nice, eh? That," said Remus, "is what it was like to be a wizard, or a witch, in Europe at the time. Try telling me you would have wanted to stay put. Nobody knew what was happening, and the wizarding community was running scared. The Ministry of Magic in Italy was shut down forcibly ... in Germany it was blown to bits, likewise in Poland and Romania. The French shut theirs down rather than let themselves be captured, and I believe the same thing happened in Norway and Holland. Even in Spain - all the magical people were forced to leave, kicked out by their own people. So, there ... there was no infrastructure, and that meant, well, that there was no information. No means of knowing what was going on beyond rumour and hearsay. And, well, rumour and hearsay aren't exactly reliable sources. In Europe at that time, all these rumours were spreading like wildfire. There were some rumours that said get out ... some that said stay put, some that said wizards and witches were being executed ... bang, just like that," he made a chopping motion with his hand.  
  
"It was confusing. And they didn't know what to do. They could see their Muggle neighbours suffering, they could see what the Occupiers were doing to people they didn't like. They weren't stupid. And they all feared that it would happen to them next, soon they would start on the wizards. A perfectly rational fear, if the truth be known. There was no evidence to the contrary, after all."  
  
Harry's mouth was hanging wide.  
  
"Would you take that chance?"  
  
Draco shook his head hurriedly. Ron popped another iced biscuit into his mouth.  
  
"I'd get out," said Hermione, at length. "I'd run."  
  
Remus nodded. "Too damn right you would," he said. "I'd have scarpered and all. Plenty of people did. There are stories of whole wizarding families who trekked across Europe to escape what they thought was certain death. Some of them hid themselves away ... some of them, I'm ashamed to say, turned the other cheek, joined the party and pretended to be Muggles."  
  
"And did they turn on them?" asked Hermione.  
  
Remus shook his head. "No ... they never did," he said. "The wizarding community in Europe was left utterly alone. Of course, there are theorists who say the reason for this is because the party elite was very into ancient myths and black magic and Teutonic folk rituals and so on. There are some who say that we were left alone because of that. Whatever the reason was, not one wizard was killed for being a wizard - plenty ended up as Muggle casualties - but there was no genocide. Nevertheless, some of them did try to get out of mainland Europe. They fled to Britain ..."  
  
"Is this where my Grandfather comes in?" asked Harry.  
  
Remus nodded. "This is all information I gleaned when I knew your Father ... so bits of it might be out of sync," he said. "But I'll try and tell it as I remember James telling it to me."  
  
"Okay," said Harry.  
  
Remus went on. "Right, so, it's early 1941. Britain is the one country in the world that's standing up to the Nazi war machine, the Americans haven't joined yet ... neither have the Russians ... the rest of Europe is occupied. We were completely alone. Now, in about May of 1941, the first European wizards began to try and get out. They would resort to ridiculous stunts to make it. Some of them Apparated over ... some of them flew broomsticks across the Channel ... neither of these are particularly wise choices; the brooms of the day weren't built for sea crossings ... Apparition over long distances is most unwise, and of course, there was no International Floo Powder Network in those days," he paused to sip his tea. "So most of them tried to come by boat. They'd sail little dinghies across the Channel ... and sometimes ... quite often, actually, it would go wrong. In those days, nobody carried lights, to avoid being spotted from the air by enemies, so many of them were run down by bigger, Muggle ships. The Ministry of Magic began to notice the bodies fetching up on our beaches ... and still more refugees were coming. Something had to be done."  
  
"What did they do?" asked Harry, who was watching Remus with the air of a child being told a riveting story. Then it occurred to Remus ... Harry probably had never been told a proper story before.  
  
"They set up a team to help them get out," said Remus. "They would insert agents into France - usually by boat, but occasionally they'd parachute men in. The agents, when they landed in enemy territory, would make contact with an underground network of friendly wizards and witches located throughout France, who acted as guides to European magical people escaping. The agents brought them back, Harry. And your Grandfather was one of them - in fact ... he was more than that."  
  
Remus looked suddenly at Harry. To his surprise, Harry was beaming from ear to ear.  
  
"Your Grandfather was a very brave man, Harry," said Remus. "Not only did he do this ... but he was also spying for the Muggles ... whilst spying for the Ministry, on the Muggles he was spying for, spying for those Muggles on the Germans. Got that?"  
  
"No, but carry on," drawled Draco.  
  
Remus glared at him. "He was an incredible man, Charles Potter. They made him a Knight afterwards ... and he got the Order of Merlin ... anyway ... I sense you didn't come here to listen to endless wartime anecdotes? No?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Actually ... I was ... er ... that is ... all of us ... were wondering if you knew what ... um, the Order of the Phoenix actually did?"  
  
Remus froze. "I don't know anything about it," he said abruptly. "I think perhaps you should leave ..."  
  
"Professor?" began Harry.  
  
Remus clasped his hands together briefly, breathed deeply, then said. "I know absolutely nothing about what you're asking me ... I think you'd better leave."  
  
"But Harry wants to know!" started Ginny. "We know his parents were in it! Why can't you tell us?"  
  
Remus scrambled to his feet. "I can't tell you because I don't know anything about it. That's it. Come on ... along with you all. They'll miss you back at the school."  
  
Reluctantly, they got to their feet ... and allowed themselves to be chivvied out of the door. As they went, Draco bringing up the rear, the blond boy turned and asked, "Mind if I use your toilet before we go?"  
  
"Outside ... first on the left," said Remus. "*Goodbye* now."  
  
Remus closed the door firmly behind them, and, wiping his hand over his forehead, which was sweating profusely, went back to sit down. Had he done the right thing? He didn't know. But the Order was top secret - it always had been, and he was still bound by the Official Secrets Act. What would be the penalties if he did say? Of course, he *knew* what it was ... how could he not, having been so deeply, deeply involved for such a momentous few years of his life.  
  
A slight knocking on the door disturbed him from his thoughts. He glanced up, assuming it was Mrs Cropredy come to curse him unto the Seventh Circle of Hell again - something she was wont to do about three times every week, without fail.  
  
"Come in," he said.  
  
If it was Mrs Cropredy, she had done a very good job with her makeup. The person standing in the doorway looked like Draco Malfoy.  
  
"What do you want?" asked Remus, grumpily. "I thought you left with the others?"  
  
Draco nodded. "But then I came back," he said. "There are a few things I want to ask you, Professor Lupin."  
  
Remus didn't bother to tell Draco to call him Remus, as he usually would have done.  
  
"As long as it has nothing to do with the Order of the Phoenix," said Remus. "I'm not allowed to talk about that. You heard what I said."  
  
"It was about that, kind of," said Draco, standing in the open doorway, tapping his foot on the floor and folding his arms across his chest.  
  
Remus stood his ground. "I'm saying nothing more," he said, huffily.  
  
"I wasn't asking you to," said Draco. "But I thought you cared for Harry."  
  
"I ... I do. Whatever does this have to do with you, Draco?" Remus asked.  
  
"I guess it's conceivable you might not know," said Draco. "I just think ... as it was his mum and dad ... that you might at least have told him. He's never known his parents, and it isn't everyday that you get the opportunity to learn about them. He's ... he's really close to them ..."  
  
"How do you mean?" asked Remus.  
  
"I mean ... close," said Draco. "I wasn't close to my parents at all ..."  
  
"Why's that?" asked Remus.  
  
"Before they died," said Draco. "We didn't exactly see eye to eye. Mother was only ever interested in her fancy balls and makeup and horrible dresses. Father was interested in ..." he paused. Switches and riding crops, mainly, he thought, but did not say aloud.  
  
"And Harry?"  
  
"Harry is," said Draco. "Not in a physical sense. But he cherishes their memory. There was a very strong bond between them. Why exactly am I telling you this?"  
  
Remus shrugged.  
  
"My point is, Professor Lupin, that I think it's doing Harry a disservice to withhold that kind of information from him. I think he has a right to know ..."  
  
"What Harry has a right to know and what the law says Harry has a right to know *are* two completely different things," said Remus. "It isn't that I think Harry ... or you, will betray confidences, but I'd sooner not talk about it for my own reasons. Some of which are personal ... and that's going to be my final word on that particular subject."  
  
Draco looked crestfallen.  
  
Remus crossed over to the other side of the window, and peered out at the snow covered scene below. "Why do you care anyway?" he asked.  
  
Draco shrugged. "I care about Harry," he said. "I worry about him. He's been through a lot just lately. We all have. And you must have noticed that he's ... well ... gone ..."  
  
"Completely out of his tree?" Remus finished the sentence for him. Draco nodded his agreement. "Well, that isn't *quite* how I'd put it myself ... but yes - he does seem to have some pretty intense personality issues to work on."  
  
"He's coming to terms with his parent's death ... that's why," said Draco. "All his life he'd been told one thing, and then to find out at eleven that everything you've ever been told is a lie. I'd be pretty pissed off at that point - says good things about Harry that he kept his cool through that."  
  
Remus nodded. "With you so far, my boy," he crossed back over to the armchairs, and sat down. "If we're going to be talking, you may as well have a seat."  
  
"Thanks," said Draco ... but he did not sit down, he merely perched on the arm of one of the chairs, and drummed his heels against the upholstery. "Then ... then he actually got to meet them, inasmuch as he can actually physically meet them. And they had to be taken away from him again. That's hardly fair. I'd be angry. That's why Harry's been so mental just lately."  
  
"I understand that," said Remus. "I really do. If I could change things ... then I would. But I can't do that."  
  
"I'm not asking you to change time," said Draco. "But cut the kid some slack."  
  
Remus gave Draco a funny look. "I don't think," he began, "that you are quite aware just how much slack everyone *has* been cutting Harry just lately."  
  
"Just tell him what the Phoenix thingy is?" said Draco.  
  
Remus shook his head. "Draco ... I can't," he said. "I really can't. I ... I'm still bound to secrecy."  
  
"Hah!" exclaimed Draco. "A likely story."  
  
Remus shook his head gravely. "Oh no," he said. "That's not it ... I mean ... I'd tell him if I could ... if I'd been told I could."  
  
Draco cocked his head to one side, quizzically.  
  
"I *would* tell him," Remus went on, conducting an intensive study of the rug as he did so. Draco noticed for the first time that there were what looked like bloodstains on it. "But, well. You've read the papers lately?"  
  
Draco shook his head. He never usually went near newspapers.  
  
"You've heard the news?"  
  
Draco nodded ... vaguely, he had.  
  
"Well," said Remus ... he spoke slowly and carefully, choosing his words with the utmost diligence. "Let's ... um ... put it this way, Draco," he paused again, sighed, "you won't remember how bad it was last time round ... you were only just born."  
  
"Poppycock!" snorted Draco, then looked embarrassed, possibly at having said something as absurd as 'poppycock.' "Everyone *always* says that to us. I'm not an idiot. Try me."  
  
Remus smiled, and for a moment Draco saw a slight twinkle in one of his eyes. "Very well," he said, after a momentary pause. "It was absolutely terrifying. Imagine not knowing who you could trust ... who your enemies were ... who your friends were. Imagine just knowing that you might come home from work one day to find your house in ruins, your family abducted by Voldemort," Draco shuddered on cue, "possibly even *killed* by him. The Order of the Phoenix was an organisation set up to fight this. And we won ... or rather, Harry won for us ... or ... well ... we all *thought* he'd won. But really, he'd just caused Lord Voldemort's Flying Circus to go on hiatus for a while. Voldemort eked out a miserable existence with the help of that snake servant of his ... Nagini, I think her name was, in Albania for eleven years until that Quirrell chap stumbled across his path ..."  
  
Draco was twiddling his thumbs.  
  
"Look ... d'you want to hear this, or not?"  
  
"It isn't like I don't already know it," said Draco reproachfully.  
  
Remus sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that Voldemort is back. And he's kicking some serious behind in the bloody mayhem department."  
  
"I thought he died," began Draco. "We all saw it ... he stepped out of the Circle ..."  
  
Remus nodded. "Ah, yeah ... Sirius told me about that. Well ... it's very clear to me ... to all of us that he didn't die. Basically ... there's a chance that the Order is going to be resurrected - and quite soon at that. And if it is ... *then* we're going to tell Harry about it."  
  
Draco, who had been staring intently at his shoes, looked up. His already pale face was drained of what little colour it had.  
  
"Okay," he said, hoarsely.  
  
**************  
  
To Harry's surprise, Sirius was waiting for them as they toiled back up the hill towards the school. He looked angry. Very angry.  
  
"I think we might want to hide," said Ron. Sirius caught sight of them, and started to walk down the steps towards them. "You guys go on without me ... I'll only hold you up ..."  
  
"Harry!" Sirius called. "We've been looking for you all afternoon."  
  
Harry hastily tried to hide the bag of tricks he had bought in Zonko's behind his back.  
  
"Where the hell have you been? We were worried sick about you! We thought something horrible had happened ..."  
  
Harry was confused.  
  
"We only went to Hogsmeade," protested Hermione. Ron and Harry put on their very best poker faces.  
  
Sirius seized Harry by the collar of his robes. "Don't you remember a single bloody thing I told you?" he asked. "You're not to go into Hogsmeade! It's very dangerous ..."  
  
"You never said ..."  
  
"I *did*!" snapped Sirius. "You're not to go into Hogsmeade unaccompanied ..."  
  
"I was with Ron ... " Harry began. "An' ..."  
  
"Ron is *not* going to protect you from attack by Voldemort now, is he?" said Sirius.  
  
Harry looked at Ron, who wobbled slightly on his crutches. "Oops."  
  
"I guess not," said Harry. "But we were with Professor Lupin ... and we had gone in before, and Sirius, nothing *did* happen. We're fine ... well, all in one piece and everything."  
  
Sirius released Harry. "You shouldn't have gone in before, Harry. You should have told me you were going. I would have come with you ..."  
  
"And you can protect me from the Dark Side, can you?" asked Harry sarcastically.  
  
"That isn't the point," said Sirius, flustered. "Harry, I want you to promise me ..."  
  
"You always want me to promise stuff," moped Harry. "Nothing ever comes of it ... I never get to have any fun ..."  
  
"Sirius has a point," began Hermione. "Perhaps we should've asked, or something ..."  
  
"Shut up," said Harry and Ron simultaneously.  
  
"Fun isn't the issue," said Sirius. "I really think we need to sit down and have a little talk ..."  
  
"You just don't *want* me to be happy," said Harry, who was on the verge of seeing red again.  
  
"We got over this," began Sirius.  
  
"No ... you got over it!" snapped Harry. "You just want to kid yourself that everything's okay. Nobody ever lets me do anything. An' ... and I just wanted to be normal and stuff. I didn't ask for any of this ..."  
  
Before Sirius could reply, he had stormed off into the gathering shadows. Sirius made as if to follow him, but Hermione gently put her hand on his sleeve.  
  
"Let him go," she said, calmly.  
  
"He might run away again ..." began Sirius.  
  
Hermione shook her head. "No," she said. "He'll just storm about a bit and then go upstairs. I know Harry ..."  
  
Ron and Sirius looked relieved.  
  
"That's good," began Ron, "because we're meant to be going back into Hogsmeade later. Mum and Dad have come up from Devon to see me, and they wanted to take us for a curry ..." he burbled.  
  
"Not a chance," said Sirius.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Harry can't go," said Sirius. "The Wards are being strengthened ... tonight. He won't be able to leave school grounds of his own volition. It's why I came to find you. That ... and ... we're getting ready to indoctrinate him ..."  
  
**************  
  
Harry pushed open the gate, and stepped into the gardens, noting as he did so that there appeared to be other footprints ... someone wearing what looked like quite expensive shoes, in the snow.  
  
For a second, he paused, looking around, almost as if sniffing the air, and then, sensing all was clear, he took a step into the garden.  
  
Someone coughed.  
  
Harry spun round immediately. Even though he knew he was just walking in the school gardens ... even though he knew he was perfectly safe, he felt adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream as his body prepared itself to fly or fight.  
  
"Sirius?" Harry was amazed at how quivery and insignificant his voice seemed.  
  
No reply was forthcoming. Harry began to walk again, padding through the soft snow that lay underfoot ... and ...  
  
Harry paused ... there *definitely* was somebody shadowing him in the garden. He was positively sure of it, now. Every time he took a step, he could hear the corresponding crunch of someone else's boots in the snow ... yet every time he stopped and looked around, whoever it was had either vanished completely into thin air - a distinct possibility in the wizarding world, or had managed to conceal themselves very well.  
  
Now, suddenly worried, Harry began to walk just a little bit faster. The hem of his robes was trailing in the snow behind him, scuffing his footprints. And now, he was sure he could hear someone breathing. He stopped again, and waited whilst his heart rate returned to normal.  
  
"Who's there?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Harry's hand went to the inside pocket of his robes, and his fingers clasped tightly around the wand that he found there. He pulled it slowly out, held it up in front of him, and whispered.  
  
"Lumos."  
  
The wandlight was not really bright enough to see properly by, but all the same, it told Harry all he wanted to know. Nobody else could have been hiding in that garden without him seeing them now.  
  
"Just my imagination ... only my imagination," he repeated to himself, before turning, but keeping a tight grip on his wand nonetheless.  
  
Harry began walking again, and immediately, he heard the breathing again, the footsteps crunching in the snow, only feet behind him. He spun around, now frantic, sweat breaking out across his forehead and under his arms.  
  
"Is there someone there?" he asked out loud. Maybe someone wearing an invisibility cloak?  
  
Harry swallowed ... turned slowly away ... and then ran. He had not taken a step when the air around him seemed to ... solidify. It was turning, before his very eyes, into some sort of liquid, treacle-like substance. It was like swimming in molasses. Breathing was becoming harder ... Harry panicked, heard his heart beating deep inside his body, opened his mouth to yell, but of course, no sound came out.  
  
A blinding red flash, very sudden, and very close ... a rush of light ... a sound not unlike that of a speeding express train, and then everything went very dark, and everything returned to normal.  
  
Harry, who had closed his eyes, opened them again.  
  
An eerie wailing filled the air.  
  
END OF PART SIX.  
  
POSERS  
  
So ... what just happened to Harry? Can anybody read anything into those dreams? What is Harry's connection to the Oscar Schindler of the wizarding world? How deeply is the Order of the Phoenix enmeshed in all this? And has anybody figured out who Harry's mortal enemy is? What about that unrequited love triangle? The hints are flying thick and fast now!  
  
THANKS  
  
I'm carrying on with the individual thanks format that I lifted out of Krum Do I Love? and that other people are now lifting from me ... I notice, because I quite like it. So if you reviewed last time, you should be somewhere in the list. Of course, this system will become untenable if ToT ever does a Draco Sinister on me - but no sign of that happening soon, so I'll carry on.   
  
To the following wonderful people;  
  
Tanasia Maleficarum - glad you enjoyed playing 'spot the Pratchett reference.'  
Amanita Lestrange - it's quite simple ... Snitch!Harry is mean and nasty, ToT!Harry is depressed and suicidal! I think.  
Saitaina - I'm not going to drop any explicit hints, but you're doing well sussing out my plot here *vbeg*  
Karina - was *too* a big continuity error *Al sulks in corner*  
Portia - intriguing guesses.  
Lizzy/Tygrestick - thanks!  
Molly - scary spiders rock *g*  
Parker - I may take you up on the Celtic thingy ... thanks for the review.  
minx - and to think people were asking me where my plot was for Part One. Ha! I'm glad I stuck out writing as well.  
Keith - I have whacked Harry round the head for looking at Sinead on your behalf ... no less is required IMO. You're damn good at plots, incidentally - perhaps I should stop letting you read this story?  
LongLongHair - I think you may well be seeing Monty Python where there is no Monty Python. Never mind. Did they do a sketch about Australian table wines? Must have missed that one. I'll bastardise the Dead Parrot sketch at some point, just for you *g*  
Yael - that was the longest review I've ever had, and merits an equally lengthy comeback. The badger wasn't anyone overtly important (but it *was* someone, so you're on the right track). I'm afraid the buried troll was a red herring. The hieroglyphs are important, and um ... you have a grudge against Simon suddenly? And Sirius *told* Harry to run away. It was a lovely review *mad schnoogles*  
Zephyr - Neville's mum is still languishing in St Mungo's, and never actually escaped, and you're another one who got the OOTP thing ... well, was it really that hard?  
Silverfox - little Snapes ... hmm ... interesting concept *scribbles in notebook* - thanks!  
Gileonnen - I got the review! Glad you liked it!  
PEZ - you're another one who picked up on the buried troll thingy ... it was a red herring, sorry. The OOTP were working on sleep psychology, but more than that I will not say.  
The Unicorn Whisperer - thanks!  
Evilia Malcone - thank you for the review *schnoogles*  
Trystellion - I have no intention of *not* continuing.  
Coqui - Savoyard ... um, I have no idea what one of those is, so I'm probably not one.  
Dumbledore - that was a 'please put x with x' review, wasn't it ... but never mind. I'll take your suggestion into consideration ... I may not do anything about it though *vbeg*  
Rhysenn - strange people flitting here and there ... I like that line. Spooked!Harry is also a nice change, IMO. Thanks for everything.  
Carey - is on some sort of drip feed for this story, by the sounds of your reviews.  
Remmirath - thanks!  
Hydy - I was pondering how to give you an evil villain cameo ... and then it suddenly came to me. So keep reading ... you *will* pop up eventually.  
Meriadoc - I'm sorry you lost your last review. We're having 13 chapters in all, and a sequel to go with it.  
Anna - thanks!  
Crimson Devil - thanks also.  
Lin-z - sorry for taking so long.  
Pook - thanks for the comments *g*  
  
AL'S FINAL THOUGHT  
  
Okay, so maybe the questions I posed last time weren't too testing. It's actually really interesting to see what you people are picking up as significant and what you're dismissing as unimportant. Some of you are quite clearly hot on my track ... some of you are stumbling over the red herrings. Everyone is missing some very significant points. There is a great deal of back story going on here, so do keep your eyes peeled! I'm kind of enjoying myself. The next part should be out within three weeks, barring horrible accidents. Till then, take care of yourselves ... and each other.  
  
YOU ARE FEELING SLEEPY  
  
Discussion of this and other great stories will shortly be in progress at the HP_Paradise Yahoo Group - skip on over and feast at our table. Visit http://groups.yahoo.com/group/HP_Paradise .  



	7. Tempus Fugit

THE TIME OF TRIAL.  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
Much as I'd like to claim that they *are* mine, it is my sad duty to remind myself that most of the characters, locations and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling, and not me. Okay?  
  
A WORD.  
  
Events here have rather run away of late ... a lot of good friends of mine have, through no fault of their own, decided to leave fanfiction.net. Let me assure you now that I *will* continue to post this arc to its conclusion at this website. After that, we shall have to see.  
  
THE STORY SO FAR.  
  
Sirius has been found not guilty of the crimes everyone thought he had committed, and has since become engaged to Gwyneth Jones, the 'substitute' potions teacher. Meanwhile, following the harrowing events of Dracaena Draco, Harry has become increasingly disturbed and angry, and troubled by a series of horrible nightmares. The discovery of a strange diary by Draco has aroused Harry's curiosity, as has the subsequent discovery of a corpse in the Forbidden Forest, a corpse revealed to be that of Neville's Dad, Frank Longbottom, who, says Sirius, had connections with a pseudo-scientific organisation called the Order of the Phoenix. Harry has been on the trail of the elusive organisation ... the story continues ...  
  
PART SEVEN. TEMPUS FUGIT.  
  
Ron rolled over in his sleep ... let out the faintest of little moans, and woke up, sending the thin, scratchy blanket falling to the floor. He sighed in annoyance. It was very, very cold, and the blanket ... that single, sleazy blanket, and the horrible, scratchy garment that appeared to be made out of old jute potato sacks, were no protection against it.  
  
Aching all over, for there was no mattress, he sat up, clasping his filthy, long-nailed hands together and hugging his legs to his bare chest in a desperate attempt to eke some warmth back into the frozen, sore bones of his body. Visible in the half-light pouring through the tiny, barred window were yellow bruises clutched desperately into the fair flesh of his forearms. The skin around his fingernails, dirty and chipped and uncut, was peeling through malnutrition, his stomach swollen and distended through hunger.  
  
Ron shrank back into the shadows, and wept, pitifully.  
  
**************  
  
For a moment or two, Harry did not dare open his eyes. He could smell something acrid ... something burning. It smelled like rubber, mixed with gas. It was a stench so frightfully overpowering that it was all he could do to keep from gagging. Then, quite unexpectedly, he heard the sound of explosions, close by. Each detonation seemed to be closer, and with each bang, came fresh waves of hot air.  
  
Crump ... crump.  
  
The ground shook with the force of it. The eerie, wailing siren was still ringing in his ears, only now Harry could hear human voices too ... people screaming, intermingled with the unmistakable roar of collapsing stonework and masonry, and the distant ringing of alarm bells.  
  
Someone brushed past him in haste and almost sent him sprawling to the ground.  
  
"Move back there, boy!" an angry voice yelled.  
  
Harry opened his eyes, and chanced a glance around. The man who had nearly knocked him over appeared to be a Muggle fireman. He wore a steel helmet over a uniform that looked practically antique ... not like the firemen who had come to Privet Drive two summers ago, when Dudley had set fire to his collection of Disney videos in a fit of pique. This man looked ... older, somehow. Like he was, in some way, out of time.  
  
"If you're just going to stand there ... then hold this!" the man shouted angrily at Harry, gesturing to the long, coiled hosepipe that was lying on the wet tarmac, like an enormous earthworm.  
  
"This isn't Hogwarts, is it?" asked Harry, knowing the answer before it came.  
  
"Deptford!" came the reply. "Look ... are you ARP, or just a firewatcher?" he sounded quite annoyed.  
  
"Uh ... neither," began Harry tentatively.  
  
"Never mind ... hold the hose!" the man roared, forcing it into Harry's hands before he had a chance to back away.  
  
Harry gripped tightly to the two metal handles either side of the nozzle and took a deep breath. He was becoming increasingly aware of intense heat ... fire, nearby. Blinking in the darkness, lit only by flickering orange, dancing shadows, he saw blazing buildings, and the silhouetted shapes of other people running.  
  
A woman was screaming. Harry looked up ... and nearly dropped the hose in shock. She was leaning out of a fourth storey window of the building, evidently a flat block.  
  
"Get that kid away from here!" somebody close by was shouting. "He shouldn't be here! Get him down a shelter!"  
  
Someone else ran past, yelling. This man was carrying a small, beige orange box, and wearing a black helmet with stencilled letters over the brim.  
  
"Ashworth Street's gone!" he roared breathlessly. "They got the gasworks! The whole thing's going to go any moment now!"  
  
"Christ!" the fireman yelled. "They'll need help on ..."  
  
"Stay where you are. You ... boy!"  
  
Harry turned. Did they mean him?  
  
"Got your gasmask?" the man asked.  
  
Harry shook his head. Gasmask?  
  
"Never mind!" the man yelled. "Make yourself useful, there's a good lad!"  
  
Harry gripped tighter. Without any warning whatsoever, a jet of high-pressure water burst forth from the nozzle, nearly knocking him off his feet. He was sweating ... his robes plastered to his body as he struggled to keep the flailing beast under control.  
  
"Aim at the fire, damn it!"  
  
Harry felt hands clasping him roughly by the shoulders, someone else was grabbing the hosepipe, dirty, grease stained fingers overlaid his. "Just hold tight to it!"  
  
Other people were speaking in the background. Harry caught snatches of their conversation.  
  
"They've got the Red Lion ..."  
  
"They're saying Southwark's taking hits badly ... and the sugar refinery's gone ..."  
  
"Any news of Bromley ... I have family ..."  
  
Harry's breathing was coming in fits and gasps. His eyes darted frantically over the building ... that woman ... was she all right? He'd lost sight of her.  
  
"I think I saw someone!" he tried to say, but the firemen weren't listening to him. He heard more bells ... sirens, and the growling of diesel engines as more appliances turned into the street, their shiny, red paint streaked with dirt and dust from the rubble strewn streets. A white ambulance, its windows covered over with what appeared to be sticky tape, was edging its way through the crowd that had gathered to watch the conflagration.  
  
Then he caught sight of her again ... and this time, the fireman spotted her as well.  
  
"Oh hell. I thought everyone in there had got down the shelter!" he yelled.  
  
"She can get out ..." began Harry.  
  
The fireman snorted. "Not a blithering chance in hell, lad! This whole thing's going to go at any minute!"  
  
Harry's eyes darted back to the woman, who was still standing at the window, waving frantically to the people below, all of whom, save Harry and the Muggle fireman, were oblivious to her presence.  
  
There was a kid with her!  
  
"She's got a child!" Harry yelled. Suddenly, all thoughts of his own safety dashed from his mind, he did the most stupid thing imaginable, and let go of the hose. It was suddenly ... he didn't know how ... but it was suddenly the singularly most important thing in the world not to let that child die.  
  
He heard a roar of anger from the fireman as the hose flailed all over the street, sending cascades of water over the watching throng, who scattered, shrieking. But Harry did not care; there was only one thought in his mind, and that was to get to that woman.  
  
He sprinted across the road, oblivious to the shouts, and before he was fully aware of just what was going on, he was through the double doors and inside the lobby of the burning building.  
  
It was deserted, and eerily quiet in there ... the roar of the flames consuming the structure seemed distant and unthreatening. Harry cast his eyes about the lobby, and spied, leaning up against someone's front door, a fire axe; grabbing it, although to what purpose he was unsure, he set off up the stairs, taking each step at a time. Smoke was filling the air, filling his lungs ... and he began to cough, dropping to his knees to edge along the floor where the air was clearer. Reaching the top of the stairs, he became aware of flames, very close, and the acrid smell of burning plastic and rubber filled the air.  
  
"Can anyone hear me?"  
  
But nobody could. Harry peeled off his robes, and abandoned them to their fate, and clasping the axe by its long handle - it really was *astonishingly* heavy, wriggled his way forwards. The smoke was stinging his eyes.  
  
Fourth floor ... fourth floor. Correctly surmising that the blaze had put the building's lifts out of action, Harry stumbled to the next flight of stairs, and began to climb them as well. He had not got halfway up when he heard a monstrous crashing sound behind him. The floor above had given way ... plaster dust, burning bits of wood and furniture were cascading down from overhead, blocking his exit.  
  
For a moment, Harry just sat there, halfway up the flight, surveying the wreckage. The roar of the flames that had seemed so distant and had *certainly* not seemed dangerous when he had entered the building was suddenly a whole lot closer.  
  
Closing his eyes against that hateful, stinging smoke, Harry clasped his fingers around the banisters, and began to haul himself up the last few steps.  
  
The second landing was utterly deserted. The windows had been smashed in by something. The heat was becoming unbearable ... and then the building trembled, and Harry knew ... he was more certain than he had ever been before, that he was going to die.  
  
**************  
  
The portraits of past head teachers of Hogwarts that hung on the walls of Dumbledore's tower study surveyed the proceedings with an air of sombre melancholy. Occasionally they would flitter between each other's picture flames for a hasty, whispered consultation with a colleague.  
  
Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, and Fawkes was perched next to him, his bright golden plumage somehow reflecting the flickering flames that danced in the grate, casting entrancing shadows about the entire room.  
  
"He dropped his wand," Dumbledore said in low tones, gesturing to the object itself, which was lying on the desk before him, like some kind of taunting affront.  
  
Professor McGonagall started forwards. "Can it tell us anything ... anything at all?" she asked.  
  
Dumbledore shook his head sombrely. "It was, of course, the first thing we tried," he said, in a tired voice. It was getting on for twenty past one in the morning, and everyone else in the castle save himself, McGonagall and Sirius were long abed. "Mais helás, non. Alas, no. The last spell Harry performed was a simple wandlight charm. Nothing more."  
  
"May I see?"  
  
Dumbledore picked up the wand resignedly, and uttered the words, "Priori Incantatem."  
  
The tip of Harry's wand began to glow with an ethereal blue light.  
  
"I shouldn't have doubted you, headmaster," Professor McGonagall said.  
  
Sirius, who was sitting in one of the rather comfortable leather armchairs in which Dumbledore's office seemed to abound, leaned forwards. "I suppose we must surmise that *they* have him?" he asked, in a hollow, deadened voice.  
  
Dumbledore shrugged. "I couldn't possibly begin to say, Sirius," he said, tonelessly. "We must face up to the possibility that the Dark Side has indeed snatched Harry from us ..."  
  
"I don't buy that for a second, Albus!" snapped Professor McGonagall, her clipped vowels lapsing, as she often did when she became especially stressed, into a Scots brogue. "The wards ... we put them up only a few weeks ago ... Alastor himself supervised their erection ..."  
  
"Wards have been known to fail, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "However, I suspect you may be right. Our security is not as tight as it should be under these circumstances. I will order Moody and the rest of the team up here tomorrow." His eyes seemed to sparkle slightly as he spoke, and for a second, Sirius looked at him oddly.  
  
Sirius got up, stiffly, from his chair, and walked slowly over to the window ... it was snowing outside again ... not a blizzard, but the white flakes were cascading down in little flurries, drifting on the night time breeze.  
  
"Bollocks!" he said, suddenly. He spun back round to face the other, frankly shocked, members of staff. "Bollocks to it. They *have* got him. It's pointless theorising! It's just like my parents all over again ..."  
  
Dumbledore hung his head and looked intently at his upturned palms. He was, of course, fully aware of how Sirius' parents had met their tragic demise last time around.  
  
"We may receive a ransom note, or something," he said, trying to keep Sirius' spirits up.  
  
Sirius shook his head. "No ... doubt it very much," he said angrily. "They won't send us a final demand. They'll send us bits of him. That's what they did to my parents. A finger a day ... for twenty days they taunted me. They were saying, 'we have them ... we can choose to kill them if we want ... and there's absolutely sod all you can do about it.' And on the twenty-first day, they sent me a package containing two human hearts ..." he trailed off, and leant on Dumbledore's desk for support.  
  
Neither of the two other faculty members really knew what to say to that. Professor McGonagall put what she intended to be a comforting arm about Sirius' shoulders, but it was shrugged off.  
  
"He might be fine, Sirius," Professor McGonagall said. She would have spoken further, but a curt rapping at the door of the study cut her off in mid flow.  
  
"Come," said Dumbledore, resignedly.  
  
The door opened a bit, and Hagrid's bearded, red face was visible peering through the crack.  
  
"The Weasleys have arrived, Headmaster," he said, his voice toneless, his accent stilted. It was clear to all three of them that he had taken Harry's disappearance the worst of all.  
  
Molly and Arthur Weasley were all dressed up for dinner, Arthur in a green tweed robe, which made him look like Sherlock Holmes, and Molly in a black dress that did her dumpy figure absolutely no favours at all. They had been *intending* to see Ron, take him out for dinner with Harry, Ginny and Hermione, but the crisis had somewhat sidetracked them. Both looked on the verge of tears.  
  
"We came straight up as soon as we heard," Molly began to explain.  
  
"Tragic ... just tragic," Arthur said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.  
  
Ron and Ginny, who had followed their parents into the study, Ron still unsteady on his crutches, merely looked at the ground. Sirius regarded the kids painfully. Hermione had taken it badly, and was apparently locked in the Gryffindor girls' bathroom and refusing to come out.  
  
Dumbledore got to his feet. "Molly, Arthur ... I ... I can't begin to ..."  
  
"We know he was like an extra son to you," Professor McGonagall began. This was the wrong thing to say, for it only sent Hagrid running from the room, now positively howling. They waited until his heavy footfall had receded back down the stairs before continuing.  
  
"It's just ... such a shock," said Molly, words failing to express, thought Sirius, what she was probably feeling. After all, they *had* practically adopted Harry, from what he had heard.  
  
"Is there nothing that can be done?" asked Arthur, gathering his children closer around him and putting a hand around his wife's shoulders. "We must be able to do something."  
  
Dumbledore regarded the Weasleys over the tops of his spectacles. He appeared to be deep in thought. "It is," he began, "obvious what must be done ..."  
  
"Then tell us!"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "Arthur, you of all people know ... in your own way, what must be done."  
  
Sirius was very suddenly overcome with the urge to smack Dumbledore for being so damn evasive.  
  
"I haven't a clue, Dumbledore ..." Arthur began.  
  
"Unfortunately ... there is very little we can actually do at this end that will make any difference. Wherever, and whenever Harry has gone, it is up to him. This is, as they say, the first big test," he fell silent, and looked all round them.  
  
Everyone's mouths were open wide.  
  
"I think supper, then bed," said Dumbledore, hastily. "We shall meet again come the morning."  
  
After he had chivvied them out of his study, he returned, walking a little stiffly, to his desk, and sat down behind it. Fawkes flapped his wings a couple of times, sending a feather spiralling to the rug.  
  
A moment passed, then Dumbledore spoke to the empty room.  
  
"You can come out now."  
  
The door to one of the other chambers opened, and a younger man poked his head through it. He was very tall, possessed of a great length of beard, and long, sweeping auburn hair.  
  
"Is it safe?" he asked.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. At this, the younger man reached into the folds of his long, ermine trimmed robes, and withdrew what, at first glance, appeared to be a tiny golden, hourglass shaped pendant on a chain.  
  
"Ready?" he asked.  
  
"Let's go and get Harry," said Dumbledore. "Five turns of the fifth level, and then, then three turns of the fourth."  
  
The other man nodded. Dumbledore picked up an identical object from the desk.  
  
"Here we go then, Albus."  
  
They both turned the hourglasses over.  
  
**************  
  
Harry, summoning up all his strength, sapped by that noxious, choking smoke, charged sideways into the door, like he had seen them do in Muggle films. He was mildly surprised, then, to find that the door did, indeed, splinter like matchwood. Harry had not been prepared for this ... he kept going, tripped over something big and heavy, and collapsed in an untidy heap at the floor.  
  
"Are you the firemen?"  
  
Harry picked himself up, and found himself face to face with a small boy, about three years old. He had long, curly, flame red hair, and his round face was dotted with freckles.  
  
"Where's your Mum?" Harry asked.  
  
"She's gone to sleep," said the boy. "I'll show you."  
  
He held out his hand, and gingerly, Harry took it, and allowed the boy to lead him into what appeared to be a sitting room. A pall of dense smoke was still hanging over the scene, and it was nearly impossible to see what was what. However, there was, lying on the circular rug in the centre of the room, what was unmistakably a woman's body.  
  
"She'll wake up soon!" the boy said hopefully. But even Harry knew that it was hopeless. The woman's eyes were wide open ... her tongue was hanging slightly out of her mouth. She was asphyxiated.  
  
And before very much longer, if those crashes from outside are anything to go by, thought Harry, she will be burned to a crisp as well.  
  
"We have to go," he said, turning to the boy, who was crouched on the floor next to the corpse of his Mother. He was wearing a grey shirt, knee-length shorts held up by braces, and long socks with brown sandals. He looked like the old pictures Harry remembered seeing of evacuee children during the War.  
  
"With Mummy," said the boy.  
  
"No," said Harry, quickly. "We can't carry Mummy. She'll have to stay here ... she'll ... she'll," he regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, "she'll have to stay here. The firemen will rescue her."  
  
"You're a fireman!" shouted the boy, gleefully.  
  
"No, no," said Harry. "We have to go."  
  
"All right," said the boy. But he remained crouching beside the body, and Harry craned closer to see what the problem was. The child was tugging on her sleeve.  
  
"It's time to wake up!" he said. "We've got to go."  
  
Harry, however, was starting to feel giddy from the horrid smoke. Praying this was the right thing to do, he seized the child around the waist, but was met only with kicks and shouts of resistance as he tried to drag him away.  
  
"Get off me!"  
  
"We have to go!"  
  
"Not without my ... gasmask!" he was shouting. "I want my Mummy too!"  
  
"Mummy's safe!" shouted Harry, losing his temper. "Where's the gasmask?"  
  
The boy smiled, a toothy grin at Harry, and then bolted out of the room. Another crash, this time close by, indicated, unbeknownst to Harry, but obvious to the firemen and the crowd outside, the collapse of half of the building.  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
The boy reappeared in the doorway, his face covered by a huge, and ugly, black rubber gasmask. In a concession to frivolity, it had black Mickey Mouse ears, too.  
  
Harry was about to yell at the boy to take it off, when it dawned on him that, actually, this was probably a sensible move. It would certainly mean that the kid wouldn't have to breathe in any of the fumes on the way down ... if there still was a way down. He wondered if the Mother had one as well.  
  
"Does Mummy have a gasmask?" asked Harry.  
  
The boy nodded, then pointed. There was a beige coloured case dangling from an upright, wooden dining chair. In one bound, Harry crossed the room, and wrenched open the clasp on top of the case. True to the little boy's word, there was, indeed, a gasmask nestling within. Harry seized it, and, loosening the straps, which were quite tight, wrenched it onto his face. Almost immediately the little plastic visor steamed up with his breath.  
  
"Damn," he said. It wasn't much, but it would have to do ... and at least now he could breathe again, even if that *did* mean he would have to feel his way downstairs.  
  
"You got yours?" asked Harry. "What's your name?"  
  
"Arthur!" said the boy. "What's yours?"  
  
"Harry," said Harry. "Good, now we've exchanged pleasantries, let's go."  
  
He grabbed the child by the hand, and going as fast as the boy's small footsteps would allow them, led him out and onto the landing.  
  
"Keep close by me!" he roared over the noise of the inferno. "Don't stop at all ... don't do anything unless I say so."  
  
"All right."  
  
Harry had occasionally had cause to wonder, during his short life, just how he would stand up in such a situation. When he had lived at Privet Drive, he had once dreamed, after another one of Uncle Vernon's trivial beatings, that a fire was consuming the house, and that he, Harry, had fled, without waking them, without stopping for them, leaving them to their fates. It had, despite his long and abiding hatred of all things to do with the Dursleys, left him cold, and he had awoken shivering ... though that was in truth because there was no radiator in his cupboard. It had given him great cause for concern, Harry having been that kind of introspective child; he had thought about things a lot to pass the time. How would he really cope with a fire? Could he really, truthfully, save another person's life? Wouldn't he just flee?  
  
As the next few minutes unfolded, Harry came to realise that, of course, he would not have done. For a brief period, the most important thing to him in the world was ensuring that little boy's survival.  
  
They clattered down the first flight of steps okay, but upon arriving at the landing below, Harry found, to his dismay, that two joists, holding up the ceiling, and probably holding up whatever remained of the block as well, had crashed down. Burning wreckage was cascading from the ceiling. There was no way down.  
  
Arthur was practically sobbing by now. Harry clutched his hand tighter, and shouted, "We'll go back up. Something will come ... something will happen ..."  
  
He began to lead Arthur back the way they had come, keeping close to the floor, where the air was cleaner, they made their way slowly back up the stairs, all the while that incessant roaring, crashing sound becoming louder and louder. Harry could hear, above the roar, the faint flickering of little, individual fires all around him as the building was gradually consumed.  
  
They arrived, panting, clothes stained with soot and dust and sweat, back on the landing outside the flat. Up here, the electricity had finally given up the ghost, and shorted out. A piece of bare flex was dangling perilously from the cracked and jagged ceiling, jerking from side to side and spraying sparks all over the floor.  
  
"Keep down!" Harry yelled. He forced the boy behind himself, and they edged slowly along, keeping out of the way of the wildly flailing wire. Harry felt burning as the sparks touched his face and skin, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out in pain.  
  
"We'll be okay!" he went on, soothing the boy. He kicked open the door of the flat again, and they made their way inside. Harry looked frantically around. Surely there must be a ladder, or a fire escape, or something ... anything, nearby. Desperate, Harry charged into the kitchen, senselessly rummaging through the drawers and cupboards ... all empty, devoid of anything, whilst the boy regarded him suspiciously from the doorway.  
  
And then, Harry heard a rushing, roaring, crashing sound, heard the shrieks of the child, Arthur. He whirled around, mouth wide with horror as the ceiling finally gave way, showering them with dirt and blazing bits of wreckage. Then one of the huge, metal joists swung down from on high, rendered red hot by the fire, crashing through the floor. Harry felt it give way under his feet, felt a sudden sensation of falling, and then knew nothing more.  
  
**************  
  
A week had passed ... and it was now the following Thursday .... Thursday the 7th, to be exact. All week long, Ron, Hermione and Draco had watched as gangs of Ministry wizards combed the Hogwarts grounds. Men armed to the teeth with huge, ferocious guard dogs on leashes headed off into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione herself was chilled to the very bones ... and almost gave up all hope of seeing Harry alive again, when she chanced upon a slow moving line of Ministry officials walking through the long grass near Hagrid's hut, spread out in a line, probing the ground with sticks ... looking for any clues whatsoever, just as Hermione had seen them do on Muggle TV crime dramas. She ran upstairs to the girls' dormitory, where Lavender and Parvati, themselves badly shaken up by Harry's disappearance, found her later that afternoon.  
  
Ron seemed beyond consolation, and daily would take to hobbling around the grounds, breathing deeply, clenching his fists, and plainly trying to keep from crying. Professor McGonagall tried to talk to him ... but he wouldn't listen. Ginny tried to talk to him ... even Fred and George tried to cheer him up ... but he was having none of it. Even the arrival of a team of paediatricians from St Mungo's, to finally fit a false leg, that seemed so real and moved so well that it was only the fact he couldn't feel it that told him it was fake, did not lift his spirits one iota.  
  
Draco did not seem his usual self, either. Of course, there was no grief, as there was amongst Harry's true friends ... but even he, as he watched the Gryffindors moving sullenly from one lesson to the next ... one conspicuous force within them noticeably absent, he felt awkward, slightly ashamed, and slightly sick. On Tuesday morning, he received a letter from the Ministry informing him that his erstwhile twin sister, Tatiana, whom he had met for the first time in Naxcivan, now three months, or thereabouts, distant, would be repatriated to Azerbaijan at the order of their Department of Magic. But Draco felt nothing for that, as much as he did for Harry. Tatiana was nothing ... they hadn't known each other that well ... and ... he had become very tearful and had to go and have a lie down, whilst Crabbe and Goyle listened at the door and sniggered to one another.  
  
Most inconsolable of all were Hagrid and Sirius. Hagrid had not been seen for some days ... school rumour had it that he had locked himself away in his little hut with Fang the boarhound and a large barrel of mead, and was refusing to come out. Some of the Ravenclaws, who had been practicing Quidditch, claimed to have heard him howling. As for Sirius ... he had repaired to the Three Broomsticks, and nightly proceeded to drink himself into a complete stupor. And hence, the entire Care of Magical Creatures timetable fell apart like matchwood.  
  
"Don't you think you've had enough?" Madam Rosmerta asked. It was coming up to six o'clock, and Sirius had been drinking since twelve. He was on his eighth pint of mead, and frankly, it was a miracle he was still standing ... or sitting ... albeit sitting with a decided list to port.  
  
Sirius raised his head off his arms, and leered drunkenly at her. "I'll tell you," he slurred, "when I've had enough ..."  
  
"Sirius ... you're drunk," Madam Rosmerta repeated. "I can't stand to see you like this. Please go home and go to sleep ... you'll feel better in the morning ... I promise."  
  
Sirius shook his head vociferously, and mumbled something Madam Rosmerta didn't hear.  
  
"I'll give you a drink," said Madam Rosmerta, "but it's going to be water ... okay? Do you want some ice in it?"  
  
"And gin," slurred Sirius.  
  
"No, just water ..."  
  
One of the other patrons leaned over the bar. "Could you turn the radio up, please?" he asked. "The news should be about to start."  
  
Madam Rosmerta poured water out of a vast pitcher into a fresh pint glass, and handed it to Sirius, who regarded it suspiciously. "Sorry, love?"  
  
"Could you put the radio on?" the man repeated. He was a short, stocky wizard wearing worn red robes.  
  
Madam Rosmerta turned the set up. Sirius stared at the water as if it was about to kill him.  
  
"This is London. You're listening to WWN. It is six p.m. on Thursday, December the 7th, 1995. Here is the news, read by me, Godfrey Wayzgoose. Tonight's top story, Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, today ordered the Minister's Guard, the elite foot soldiers of the Ministry to patrol the streets of wizarding London for the first time since October, 1981. This renewed level of vigilance is in response to the recent spate of attacks against magical targets by the forces of darkness. In further news of what is ... now, indubitably the resurgence of the Dark Side ... um ... we're ... we're getting reports, uh, now, in fact, of a massive explosion at the Ministry building. No news of casualties is coming in yet ... we're ... we're still holding on at this end. Which we ... holy ..."  
  
A loud rumbling echoed over the airwaves. Madam Rosmerta turned it down slightly ...  
  
"This is not alcohol," burbled Sirius, unhappily ... but he drank the water anyway.  
  
"... am not sure just what that was," the signal went crackly, like it did during thunderstorms. "Um ... we can ... we're ... this is WWN, staying on the air throughout the current situation. I ... we appear to have ... appear to have ..."  
  
Sirius put down the glass he was drinking from, and motioned for the set to be turned up again. Those patrons who were not watching the Hogsmeade & District Darts Tournament were all listening intently ...  
  
"... massive explosion just rocked the studio building here in London. We're ... we're staying on the air, it would seem we are still broadcasting ... and we can now take you live to Enid Brook ... who is down on the street, in the thick of things ... Enid ..."  
  
The signal cut out briefly.  
  
"Turn it on!" someone shouted.  
  
Madam Rosmerta fiddled with the dial. "Hang on ... hang about ... got it, I think," a burst of Beethoven's Ninth rang out.  
  
"Damn ... no ... sorry ... here we go."  
  
"... standing here amidst a scene of utter confusion, Godfrey, nobody seems to know what is going on. I can confirm to you that the Ministry building has been bombed, it would seem, the ... the front of the building has been blown clean away, and from where I am I can see office furniture hanging from the ... from the structure here ..."  
  
"Any sign of any casualties?"  
  
"There are as yet, no emergency services on the scene, but people are emerging from the building ... as far as casualties are concerned, we must assume the attack was lethal ... at this moment, I find it hard to believe how anybody in those rooms could have survived ... um ... we're ... we're getting news now, news now that ..."  
  
"Sorry to interrupt you there, Enid ... I can now take you to Abel Cartwright, who is on the roof of the WWN building ... Abel ..."  
  
"From up here, I can see several small fires ... a lot ... a lot of people on the streets, taking to the streets. It seems to be a full scale panic ... I'm ... I'm not sure what's going on ... we'll ... we'll come back to you just as soon as ..."  
  
"Thank you. We're getting reports that Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic has been fatally wounded in the attack on the Ministry building ... more of that from Enid ..."  
  
"Thank you ... bodies are now being carried out of the ... of the building. And mediwizards are on the scene ... we can see the Dark Mark now ... floating ... and, oh God ... Godfrey, we're going back to you hurriedly ... we're getting out of here ... there appear to be masked ... masked wizards on the square ... coming this ..."  
  
"Not sure what caused us to lose that report. We're working on it, this," another loud bang briefly drowned out the presenter's voice, "... full scale attack on wizarding London ... that was another explosion you heard ... not sure if that was a bomb or not, and we're going to now take you to Abel again, who is rather better placed to ..."  
  
The signal cut out again. Madam Rosmerta thumped the set, which was now emitting a high pitched whistling.  
  
"Damn useless thing."  
  
"... ladies and gentlemen. We are activ ... actively looking to re-establish that link just as soon as we can. In the meantime, I have been rushed this statement, on behalf of the Ministry ... I must ... a full-scale alert against Dark Insurgency ... this is an official alert ... official. Um ... we must recommend that you remain calm, remain in your homes, and do not try to leave your current location. We'll ... we'll of course be bringing you live updates ... news coming now, um, it appears that the Minister of Magic has died ... within the last few minutes bodies were brought out of the bombed Ministry building in London, and within the last minute itself, I have been told to inform you that ... someone's handing me a statement here ... um ... we appear to have an invasion of the studio here ... what."  
  
The sounds of papers rustling.  
  
"I hardly think that's rational at this time. We are trying to ... ladies and gentlemen ... we appear to have a full-scale situation at this time within the studio itself. I must please reiterate the official government plea to remain calm at this juncture ... we'll be right back ..."  
  
"New, for the witch in a hurry to be going places, comes the Eezy-Wipe Kitchen Cleansing Spell. Just one application keeps your worktops looking and smelling fresh for up to a whole week. No more mess from those kids! No more frogspawn when you're trying to fix dinner. Eezy-Wipe ... making your life, eezy!"  
  
"Please do not adjust your wireless set. This is a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System."  
  
Madam Rosmerta didn't. Silence had fallen over the entire pub.  
  
"... station is now on the air. Please remain calm. Do not attempt to leave your homes. Thank you. This is ... uh ... WWN. Staying with you throughout the current crisis ... we're breaking now for ... no we're not. I'm Godfrey Wayzgoose ... thank you for listening at this time we ... we are unsure as to what is happening. For the record, I am being watched in the studio now by three masked wizards who ... no? No ... okay ... ixnay on that point. Seem to be ... I must at this time reiterate the official plea to stay exactly where you are. There is ... as far as I can tell, mass panic on the streets of wizarding London tonight ... we're a bit isolated at the minute. I think it'd be ... it'd be ... may we take that report? You will only ... only make matters worse if you do ... I'm very sorry, listeners, this appears to be a full scale breakdown of official government power. If I may describe the scene ... we are seeing, down below us on Diagon Alley, er ... running figures ... many ... flickering green light all over the place. As I understand it units of the Minister's Guard have been deployed against what is a full scale insurgence within London itself ... cannot quite maintain why or how this has suddenly happened ... I would *really* appreciate it if you didn't point that thing at my head, sir. That ... that button is not important ... please, we are on the ..."  
  
"WWN, radio for the wizarding community ... paid for by listeners like you ..."  
  
"... don't press that button, I said. No! As I was saying, the studio is being closely watched, I have been handed a new statement ... I will not read this tripe ..."  
  
There was the sound of someone else talking off the microphone.  
  
"Under protest. If anybody out there is still listening to us. This radio station is now officially under the control of the Silver Serpent ... I'll thank you to stop pointing your wand at me. The statement reads that as ... as of now, all, all ... I'm sorry, this is against our ethical broadcasting policy ..."  
  
"Do it."  
  
"All ... all, uh, Mudblood property held at Gringotts now becomes the property of the ... of the Dark Lord himself. There will be further announcements made as they become necessary ... that is all Mud... ah ... Muggle-borns are to ... property has been seized in London. This is now, officially, a coup d'etat. We are under siege here ... Ladies and Gentlemen, if any of you are listening abroad, in France or Eire or anywhere ... as a ... ah ... responsibility, I must plead at this point. That, Death Eaters, the ... the Silver Serpent Cult now appears in control of most ... of the functions of magical government in the United Kingdom. I am pleading with you now to send help of whatever kind you can ... that's a plea to our listeners abroad, please help ... I understand now we are to be taken off the air ... yes ... let me finish please. I do not know what is happening here ... no ... I will finish this broadcast. We are being taken off the air by rebel insurgents, forcibly and against our wishes ... hands off! We are being gagged ... this is unofficial, no government has sanctioned this action, and I must regard it as a violation of ... a crude violation ... violation none the less, an act of civil war against the legitimate magical government of the United Kingdom. I am pleading with you to send us help here. This radio station ceases to be a source of reliable information ... if ... the next voice you here will be ... not mine ... um ... if anybody ... if ... help."  
  
A different voice. "This station is going temporarily off the air. We will return you to ... in the meantime, here is some ... ah ... light music, from London, this is WWN ..."  
  
The signal cut completely.  
  
Sirius looked up from his drink ... his hands were shaking.  
  
**************  
  
Harry woke up, sweating profusely, his heart racing. His eyes snapped open, and then he breathed a huge sigh of relief as he felt the familiar apple pie bed enclosing him tightly on all sides. He was in the Hospital Wing. He was safe.  
  
Harry began to wonder just what he had done to end up here *this* time, when it suddenly dawned on him that this was most certainly not the Hospital Wing. For a start, it was the wrong colour. This ward was painted in that strange shade of bile green so favoured by institutions worldwide. The light came not from candelabra, but from bare, fluorescent tubes. And on the ceiling, someone had painted a countryside scene from what appeared to be The Wind in the Willows. There was a steam train, a toad driving an old time motor car, and assorted animals wearing human clothes.  
  
He propped himself up in bed, the better to survey his new surroundings. The room was filled with beds, each one containing a solitary, sleeping figure. They all appeared to be children. Several of them were hooked up to drip feeds, but looking closer, Harry could see none of those sophisticated computer things that he knew from watching Muggle television, hospitals were crammed with. At the far end of the ward were a pair of double, swing doors, and a glass fronted booth with an elderly, steel-grey haired woman sitting inside, reading a newspaper.  
  
It was deathly quiet and dark outside.  
  
As Harry pondered what all this dense description actually meant, the double doors crashed suddenly open, and a swift moving retinue of two doctors and a nurse entered the ward. They moved quickly from one slumbering child to the next, stopping at each bed to take a pulse, wipe a fevered brow, and so on. One of the doctors was taking notes on a little pad.  
  
When they reached his bed, they paused.  
  
"Good evening," said the doctor who wasn't taking notes. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and looked worryingly studious. "I see you've consented to rejoin the land of the living, my boy."  
  
"Whu?" went Harry.  
  
The doctor regarded him with a smile. "My name is Doctor Smith, this is my colleague, Doctor Johnson, and this is Nurse Black ... she'll be looking after you whilst you're on the ward ..."  
  
"What happened?" asked Harry, feeling his head. To his dismay, there was a thick, white bandage wound tightly about his skull.  
  
"You've been out for nearly a week," said Doctor Smith. "We were worried about you. You were injured in a blazing building ... but don't worry, you're in tip-top condition and all that rot. Just as soon as we've rested you up for a few days, you can go home."  
  
Harry didn't really think he had a home to go to. But he kept quiet. "What about the other boy?" he asked. "There was another boy, wasn't there?"  
  
Doctor Smith hastily consulted his sheaf of medical documents. "Of course," he said. "Arthur Weasley, I believe. That was a very brave thing you did, Harry ... um ... what, might your surname be? Arthur has told us your ..."  
  
"Potter," said Harry, woozily. "Potter."  
  
There was a brief pause as Doctor Smith scribbled this new intelligence down. "Okay, Harry Potter," he said. "You took quite a whack to the head, old chap. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you a few questions. Check you've not gone doolally on us. You feel up to that, Harry?"  
  
"Yeah, go ahead," said Harry.  
  
Doctor Smith pulled up a chair, and sat down awkwardly on it.  
  
"Now, can you give us your address, your home address?" he asked.  
  
Harry nodded. "Sure, um ... number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging. It's in Surrey ..."  
  
Doctor Smith raised his eyebrows. "Long way from home, aren't we, Harry? Whatever were you doing in Greenwich during a raid?"  
  
"I don't know," said Harry.  
  
"Okay, that's okay. Now, can you tell us your date of birth?"  
  
Harry nodded. "31st of July, 1980," he said.  
  
Doctor Smith nearly swallowed his tongue. "I'm ... I'm sorry, Harry?" he said. "I thought you said 1980. You mean 1930, I'm sure, maybe 1928 ... to look at you I'd say you were a little older than eleven?"  
  
Harry gave the doctors a very funny look. "No ... no, 1980," he said.  
  
"Right ... erm ... Harry, this may sound very, very strange to you. But can you tell us who the Prime Minister is?"  
  
"The Muggle one?" asked Harry, without thinking.  
  
"I'm sorry, a Muggle?"  
  
"Yeah ... oh," realisation dawned. "Sorry, that's nothing. It's Major ... John Major ..."  
  
Doctor Smith raised his eyebrows. "Riiight," he said, slowly. "Harry, who might the President of the United States be?"  
  
Harry scoffed. "Bill Clinton," he said. "Duh, everyone knows *that*."  
  
He stopped, it was clear from the expressions on their faces that they didn't.  
  
"Tell me, um, Harry," said Doctor Smith, who now appeared very on edge. "Have you heard of a man named Franklin Roosevelt ... Winston Churchill?"  
  
Harry nodded vociferously. "Sure, sure," he said. "They won the War ..."  
  
Doctor Smith raised his eyebrows even further ... they were practically up at his hairline by now. "*Won* ... the war, you say, Harry? Who wins the War ... which countries."  
  
"Um, us," said Harry. "The Russians, the United States ..."  
  
Doctor Johnson broke in. "The Americans aren't fighting, Harry."  
  
Harry suddenly remembered, with a flash of inspiration, what he had been told by Dumbledore. Was this that hospital? Was *he* that boy? It seemed incredible ... but ...  
  
"What day is it?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"What day ... the date ..."  
  
"It is," Doctor Smith checked his watch. "Approximately six thirty p.m. ... on the 7th of December, 1941," he said. "Does that tally?"  
  
Harry did the sums in his head. "Yes," he said. "Um ... I rather think you should turn on your wireless, or something. They ... the Americans are fighting now. They get bombed into the War ... today, at a place called Pearl Harbour ..."  
  
Doctor Smith nodded indulgently. "By whom, Harry?"  
  
"Um, Japan, I think," said Harry, who had only the vaguest idea through snatches of overheard documentaries on the Dursleys' TV.  
  
"Japan!" scoffed Doctor Johnson. "Fine time to rake *that* up! Bloody Yanks wouldn't recognise a war if it came up and biffed em on the nose. Why'd you think they're always so late getting here ..." he broke off under a glare from Doctor Smith.  
  
"That will do," he was tapping his finger to the side of his head, and motioning to Harry. Harry was mortally offended. Were they implying he had gone insane?  
  
"We might have to section him. For the other children's safety, of course," Doctor Smith went on.  
  
The others nodded their agreement. They *did* think that! It dawned on Harry that they were assuming he couldn't understand them.  
  
"Shall I sedate him?"  
  
"Might be an idea," Doctor Smith said.  
  
"I'll get a hypodermic," said Nurse Black.  
  
"I'm not mad," said Harry.  
  
Doctor Smith regarded him with the air of someone who thought otherwise. "Of course you're not. Would you like to tell me what happens after the War, Harry?"  
  
Harry nodded, took a deep breath, and continued to talk. "Sure, yeah. We win and Hitler dies and there's a thing called an atom bomb which gets dropped, and then everyone starts hating one another, and there's a big wall in Berlin, and somebody shoots President Kennedy, then there's loads of weird stuff happening in the Sixties ... my Godfather was there, he can tell you. Then there's loads of boring stuff happening, and some Space Shuttle gets blown up ... then that wall I told you about fell down, and Communism ended, and there was a big war in Iraq ..."  
  
Doctor Johnson scooted closer, and wiped the sweat from Harry's forehead with a pocket handkerchief. Harry stopped babbling and calmed down. Doctor Smith ran a hand through his hair, and spoke in a calming voice. "There, there, Harry. You'll be okay. Everything will be all right. You don't need to worry about any silly old Space Shuttles. We're going to give you a teensy injection now. Send you off to sleep."  
  
Nurse Black was looming over him, and Harry, who suddenly remembered that he was deeply, deeply scared of injections, paled.  
  
"Just roll over, Harry. This won't hurt a bit."  
  
**************  
  
1941  
  
Dumbledore sat down at the desk again. The office looked completely different, although, of course, that was because it *was* completely different. After all, back then, he thought, I wasn't Headmaster. How well I remember it, he thought, running his hand along the desk, picking up a pile of blue exercise books and reading the scrawled names on their covers.  
  
"Drink?" Dumbledore asked him.  
  
Dumbledore looked up. "Thank you, Albus, I won't," he said.  
  
"This is very irregular," said the younger version of himself, sitting down opposite him with a glass of neat Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. "I suppose I should really have anticipated it ..."  
  
"Time travel is full of paradoxes," Dumbledore said. "Muggles don't even think it possible. But we know better."  
  
"We always do," said Albus. "Know who I caught the other day ... skulking around ... mind you, you probably already know this ..."  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "I do," he said. "But tell me anyway ..."  
  
"That Rubeus Hagrid kid ... he's a funny one. Reckon he's hiding something," said Albus.  
  
"Couldn't possibly say," said Dumbledore.  
  
"And they found a girl, dead, the other day," said Albus. "I can tell you, it's really hotting up round here. They're saying that silly Chamber of Secrets thing has been opened again. Well, I don't know about that, but there's weird stuff happening all over at the minute."  
  
Dumbledore nodded.  
  
"Half the old firm are off fighting for the Muggles ... we're understaffed as it is. Horatio Snape joined up ... he's in the Navy, down in the Med. And Charlie Potter ... remember him, he's somewhere in France, undercover, for the Ministry of Magic, or so I understand it," Albus said. Dumbledore sat back, content to let all this already well-known knowledge wash over him.  
  
"But what am I saying ... you, of course, know all of this."  
  
Dumbledore grinned. "I'm afraid I do," he said.  
  
"So," said Albus, knocking back his shot of whiskey in one go and reaching to replenish his glass. "You think that this, Harry Potter boy is somewhere in ... in our, *timeframe*, Albus. Am I right?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "To be exact, he's in a hospital in Greenwich," he said. "The circumstantial victim of a blazing block of flats ..."  
  
"Whatever was he ... I can't begin to imagine ..." Albus said. "You want Aberforth to ... to go in there. Get him out?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "It is how it happened," he said. "I remember it so well myself."  
  
The younger Dumbledore clapped his hands around his long hair. "I'm very sorry ... this is just, so very confusing. Luck would have it Aberforth is in London at the minute. I mean, it'd be the work of a minute to owl him and let him know ..."  
  
Dumbledore leaned across the desk. "Harry has already accomplished the thing he came back here to do," he said. "A young wizard boy, named Arthur Weasley. If Harry hadn't ... well, been there, he would have died ... I know these things. I know the future too," he paused. "Arthur Weasley is himself vital to the survival of the wizarding world in years to come," he went on, "and his son is even more vital. The other boy's name is Ronald, a very good friend to Harry, although currently ... currently ..." he tailed off. The knowledge of what really was happening was, after all, so painful ... and to know, just to know that these events were to come. He hardly dared think of it. So many times, he had lain awake, poring over this knowledge. And to know he couldn't tell anybody anything ... not Professor McGonagall ... not anybody, it was horrible.  
  
"This is dynamite stuff, Albus," said Albus. "You're sure?"  
  
Dumbledore waved the time turner at him. "I have seen it," he said. "I know what happens. This whole, sequence of events is just the prelude. You think you have problems with Grindelwald ... well, you ain't seen nothing yet."  
  
"I'd sooner not know," Albus reminded him.  
  
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Of course," he said.  
  
"Tell me one thing," said Albus, picking up the Evening Prophet. It was a special edition, and there was a full front page photo of the carnage over in distant Hawaii, at the other end of the Earth. The moving picture showed squadron upon squadron of little planes descending from the sky, the air thick and black with smoke from the blazing refineries and the sinking ships. "Does good come of this horror?"  
  
"Ultimately," said Dumbledore, with a gleam in his eye. "Ultimately, it is a good thing," he thought, as he spoke, however, what good can come of it? Everything must happen on schedule. Everything from the Blitz, to Dresden, to Hiroshima. I cannot interfere. And beyond ... fifty years of nuclear paranoia. Muggles certainly come up with ingenious ways to kill one another.  
  
**************  
  
1995  
  
Arthur Weasley looked around the room. The other members, hastily transported in secret from their respective locations, were gathered round the table.  
  
"Well," he said, after they had all finished shuffling their papers. "It appears we are all here ..."  
  
Remus Lupin filled his glass with water. Sirius looked pale and defeated ... suffering, as he was, the effects of several sobriety charms, hastily performed by Remus. Even Arabella Figg, without her disguising charms on, looked unnaturally older, as if she was going grey overnight.  
  
"It would appear to be a great shock to us all," Arthur went on. "Um ... I can only say at this time, that from what we know, my own son, Percy is well placed within the Ministry ..."  
  
"They are in complete control ... is what he's trying to say ... they are in complete control and we've lost Harry," said Gwyneth with venom.  
  
"We might as well lie down and wait to die," said Sirius.  
  
Arabella shook her head. "Not me," she said. "I fully intend to fight this one out ..."  
  
Arthur coughed for order. "That's as maybe ... it would seem it has fallen to us to appoint a Minister of Magic by proxy, in the absence of any legitimate form of magical government, I don't see what else we can do ..."  
  
Dumbledore looked sadly at the faces of the remaining members of the Order. What a sad, depressing, ragtag bunch, he thought. The years have reduced them to petty squabbles ... while London burns, they fiddle.  
  
"If we can establish some sort of government in exile," said Arthur, "I rather think it might help stabilise the situation somewhat. After all, they haven't got this far yet ... and the Minister's Guard is doing a fine job ..."  
  
"For how much longer?" asked Sirius, blackly.  
  
"I nominate Albus," said Arabella.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"If we are to establish some form of resistance ... it seems the only way," Arabella went on. "I move that Albus Dumbledore be immediately instated as Minister of Magic ..."  
  
"This is hardly the time or the place ..." began Dumbledore. He noticed that everyone around the table was nodding gravely.  
  
"I second the motion," said Sirius.  
  
"Likewise," said Gwyneth.  
  
Dumbledore was faintly flabbergasted. "I ... I ..." he began, "I mean ... I can't just take over, not just like that ... Arthur is far better placed to assume power than I am ..."  
  
Arthur shook his head. "I have other things to worry about," he said.  
  
"The headship of the school ... I mean ... I can't just leave Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. "And I certainly can't do both jobs at once ..."  
  
"Nobody was insinuating you leave Hogwarts, Albus," said Arabella. "This is probably the safest place in the country to be right now. It would certainly act as a rallying point for the Light ... a public relations bonanza ..."  
  
"Since when were you so clued up about public relations?" asked Sirius.  
  
Arabella smiled. "I have had a very uneventful fourteen years," she said. "Being Harry's Secret Keeper wasn't all it was cracked up to be ... anyway, I had plenty of time to do some background reading ... and breed cats," she added, with venom. "Always with the bloody cats. I loathe cats ..."  
  
"This would certainly seem to be the place to set up an interim government," said Arthur. "Albus ... any ... anything to add?"  
  
"I'll head it if you want, but it will mean I can no longer continue in my post as Headmaster of this school," said Dumbledore, resignedly. "I will have to delegate ..."  
  
"Is that significant?" asked Arthur Weasley, combing his moustache. "Who would take over from you ..."  
  
Sirius pretended to bang his head on the conference table. "Snape," he said, in a low voice. "Snape ... he means Snape ..."  
  
"You trust that man?" asked Arthur. "After everything?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Implicitly," he said.  
  
"Nah ... I don't like it," said Rhodri Finnegan. "We all saw what happened with Snape last time ..."  
  
"I trust him," Dumbledore repeated. "And besides, if what you tell us is true, we will be based here anyway ..."  
  
Rhodri nodded. "It's utter chaos across the ditch," he said. "You can't move in Dublin for people trying to get out. Half the magical community has decided to leave ... I only got out through sitting on the waiting list for a Portkey heading this way ..."  
  
"I don't like Snape," said Sirius. "He turned spy once ... he could turn spy again ..."  
  
"He's too obvious a target," said Arabella. "I agree with Rhodri and Sirius. Instate Snape as Headmaster of this school if you want, but you'll turn us into a prime target for Voldemort by doing so. A lot of the Death Eaters are still very angry with him ... especially after he foiled that ..."  
  
"We all remember that," said Dumbledore. "Very well ... we should put it to the vote. I move that the next Headmaster of Hogwarts school should be Severus Snape ..."  
  
"I move for Sirius," said Rhodri.  
  
"Bollocks ... don't be stupid," said Sirius.  
  
Rhodri grinned. "Seamus is always very complimentary of you in his letters," he said. "I don't think I can ..."  
  
"Professor McGonagall," said Gwyneth. "She had her eye on the post back in 64 when they finally retired Dippet ..."  
  
"This is hardly for us to decide," said Arthur.  
  
"I agree," Arabella said. "This is a matter for the governors. The Order of the Phoenix does not interfere with Hogwarts business inasmuch as possible ..."  
  
"Maybe the time has come for us to start," said Rhodri. "You can't get out of the UK at the minute ... the Death Eaters control all the major Portkey points ... the Floo Network has been shut down ... there's no chance of us getting to Eire anytime soon."  
  
"Oh, Hogwarts will remain our centre of operations," said Arabella. "That isn't a point for discussion, at least as far as I'm concerned."  
  
"Then we cannot help but interfere," said Rhodri.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Rhodri is right," he said. "Legally, we have to acquire facilities here from the Governors and the Board of Trustees ..."  
  
"Will that be a problem?" Gwyneth asked.  
  
"It shouldn't be," said Dumbledore. "The Board is generally very supportive ... there are a couple of rogue elements who might try to use their veto ..."  
  
"Bloody Slytherins!" swore Gwyneth.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "I'm awfully afraid so," he said. "The conservatives do hold several key positions on the Board ... convincing them to allow the Order to use facilities here would be tricky ..."  
  
"Tricky is an understatement," said Gwyneth.  
  
"Try getting our Seamus to eat cabbage," began Rhodri. "T'is like getting blood out of a stone, to be sure ..."  
  
"I suggest," Dumbledore said. "We adjourn for the night. Hogwarts is well warded ... we are in no immediate danger ..."  
  
Gwyneth yawned. "That," she said, "is the best idea you've had all day, Albus."  
  
**************  
  
1941  
  
Harry awoke the next morning to find the selfsame doctors who had visited his bedside the previous evening, all watching him intently. Doctor Johnson was holding the morning edition of the London Times, and appeared quite excited about something.  
  
"All right this morning, Harry?" asked Doctor Smith, in a kind voice.  
  
"Whassamarrer?" asked Harry, groggily.  
  
Doctor Johnson thrust the newspaper, quite rudely, Harry thought, in front of him. "How did you know?" he asked, in a tone of wonderment. "How could you possibly have even guessed."  
  
Harry read the banner headline at the top of the page. Indeed, there, in very bold, black and white lettering, was the news. America was in the War.  
  
"Ah," he said.  
  
"That's really quite incredible, Harry," said Doctor Smith. "I mean, unless you have access to the highest echelons of the government, which, with all due respect to you, old chap, I somehow doubt, then there is simply *no* conceivable way you can have known about this. Unless of course, we accept your frankly dubious claims to have been born in 1980 to have absolutely, um, anything whatsoever to do with this, which, frankly, they don't," he ruffled Harry's hair again, as if this excused him from being extremely patronising.  
  
"So would you like to tell us the truth, Harry?" asked Doctor Johnson, clearly playing some kind of good cop, bad cop game with him. But Harry was too clever, or not mad enough, to fall for it.  
  
"I already did tell you the truth," he said, frostily, folding his arms across his chest. "Last time I told you the truth you gave me an injection."  
  
"For the safety of the other children, Harry. You must admit that, however logical your thoughts appear to you, old chap, to us barmy old codgers, they do appear to be rather, erm, off the wall," said Doctor Johnson, wringing his hands.  
  
Harry scowled. He was beginning to get angry now. That and he was beginning to wonder when on earth Aberforth Dumbledore was going to show up.  
  
"Please tell us, Harry."  
  
"We looked through the register," Doctor Smith said. "There's no such place as Privet Drive in Little Whinging. Why did you give us a false address?"  
  
"Because it probably hasn't been built yet," said Harry, whose blood was beginning to boil. The doctors were being extremely irritating indeed, and really, he just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. "Look, can I *go* now, I have to meet someone."  
  
"Who are you meeting, Harry. Tell us about him?"  
  
"I can't," said Harry resolutely.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because it's a secret," said Harry. "Can't you keep a secret?"  
  
"Well, yes, but that's hardly an issue," said Doctor Smith.  
  
Harry snapped ... he wasn't sure how he managed it, but one of the fluorescent strip lights on the ceiling shattered, raining glass down on top of the doctors, and onto his bedspread.  
  
"Holy ... what happened?" Doctor Smith asked, evidently not linking the incident with Harry at all.  
  
Harry merely tried to look innocent. But, to his chagrin, or maybe, perversely, to his delight, all the light bulbs in the ward then proceeded to shatter, one after the other.  
  
"Perhaps it's an unexploded bomb!" Doctor Johnson was saying, panicking.  
  
"Rubbish ... since when did unexploded bombs cause lights to shatter?" asked Doctor Smith, standing up and pocketing his fountain pen. "Are you mad, Johnson?"  
  
"Not at all ... perhaps there's a problem at the substation ..."  
  
"Maybe," said Doctor Smith. Harry observed that, unknown to either of the two men, the double doors at the far end of the ward had opened once again, and two more people had entered. One of them was that same nurse from the previous night, Nurse Black, Harry seemed to remember she was called. The other was a youngish looking man, probably in his early thirties, or thereabouts, who had shoulder length auburn hair, a frankly incredible beard, and wore a very strange tweed suit that looked completely out of synch with his surroundings. A wizard amongst Muggles, maybe, thought Harry. Maybe it was even Aberforth, Dumbledore's brother ... the one with the goat.  
  
They were approaching the bed.  
  
"Doctor Smith, sir," the nurse began, uncertainly. "What happened in here?"  
  
"Buggered if I know," Doctor Smith, evidently quite shaken by the experience, said. "There must be a problem with the electrics."  
  
"How unusual. Sir, this man claims to be a relative of your patient's."  
  
Doctor Smith looked the strange, long-haired man up and down, then he leant closer to Nurse Black and said, in a stage whisper. "Is he ... you know ... all right?"  
  
"As far as I can make out," said Nurse Black, equally loudly. Aberforth Dumbledore, if that's who he was, pretended not to be able to hear them.  
  
"Sir," said Doctor Smith. "You know this boy?"  
  
The man nodded. "He's a nephew of mine," he said. "I cannot fathom how he managed to get himself wound up here," as he spoke, Harry was certain he heard a voice in his head saying just play along  
  
Okay he thought back.  
  
Excellent thought the man.  
  
"Sorry Uncle, er ... Uncle Dumbledore," said Harry. The man winked theatrically, then nodded. "I was ... er ... lost ... um."  
  
"We think he may be a bit, um, loopy," Doctor Smith confided. Harry scowled at him, and right on cue, one of the high up windows shattered.  
  
"Oh yes, loopy as a bumblebee on opium," said Aberforth, ignoring the puzzled expression upon Doctor Smith's face. "It runs in the family. His father thinks himself to be a wizard ... with a magic wand and everything. Utterly absurd ... in this day and age as well."  
  
"Um, quite," said Doctor Smith. "Would you ... like to take some time alone with him?"  
  
"If I may?" said Aberforth. "You needn't worry Gentlemen, Madam ... I am very trustworthy indeed. You have to be ... in my line of work."  
  
"Very well," said Doctor Smith, who clearly was very, very suspicious indeed. "Doctor Johnson, Nurse Black ... if we could withdraw outside for a moment or two, please."  
  
When they've gone, pretend to hug me thought Aberforth.  
  
Okay thought Harry ... um, if it isn't a rude question, how are you doing this, and how come I can do it back?  
  
I'm a telepath thought Aberforth. Old, old skill. Very few people ... if you see what I mean.  
  
The Doctors had retreated into the ward sister's office at the far end of the room, and upon hearing the door click shut, Harry, true to his word, flung his arms around Aberforth.  
  
"You might pretend to be crying, as well," said Aberforth. "Just to drive the point home. We have to get you out of here."  
  
Harry duly pretended to shudder his shoulders a bit, and make weepy noises. Then, thinking he might as well do the thing properly, he whined. "I'm scared, Uncle. They gave me an injection. I want to go back to Hogwarts."  
  
Steady on thought Aberforth Harry, I'm slipping a magic wand into your hand ... it's an old one of Albus', but it'll have to do ... and at least it means you're armed  
  
Harry felt the reassuring bulk of a wand in his hand. Thanks he thought.  
  
"You are Harry, then," said Aberforth, releasing Harry from the hug.  
  
Harry nodded. "Are you ..."  
  
"Albus' brother ... yes," said Aberforth. "And not a goat in sight, either, although that *was* many years ago, to be sure ... I was young, I needed the money ... you know how these things work."  
  
Harry, who didn't, nodded his agreement.  
  
"And the Weasley boy ..."  
  
"Sir ..." Harry cut in. "Can I please ask you something?"  
  
"Hmm, fire away, Harry," said Aberforth.  
  
"How did you know I was here?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, simple," said Aberforth. "My brother told me. But that isn't important right now ... what we do have to do is try and get you out of here safely. We have a long journey to Hogwarts ... and it is so dangerous trying to travel these days ..."  
  
"Can I ask you something else?" Harry went on.  
  
Aberforth looked slightly pained, but nodded anyway. "All right," he said.  
  
"That ... Arthur Weasley. Is he actually Arthur Weasley?" asked Harry. "As in," he paused, wondering vaguely whether it was best to reveal anything about his future at all to this man. However, Aberforth seemed unperturbed, so Harry continued to ask his question. "As in ... my friend's dad?"  
  
Aberforth grinned, then nodded. "Exactly right, Harry."  
  
"Would he have died?"  
  
"I don't know the details of the accident. Look ... can you Apparate?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I need a licence," he began.  
  
Aberforth looked surprised. "Oh? Is that so? Crumbs. I shudder to think how much regulation there will be if you need a licence for a silly little thing like that ..."  
  
"You could get splinched!" said Harry. "I wouldn't try it!"  
  
"There is a faint possibility of that happening," conceded Aberforth. "But it certainly won't happen to me. I've been Apparating since I was ten, and I've never once left anything, anywhere ..." he paused. "Well ... there was a small mole, that I left in Great Yarmouth once, after a seaside holiday, but it was hideously ugly and I never did much care for it."  
  
He stopped again, and peered owlishly at Harry, who somehow was getting an impression that Albus Dumbledore's brother was a bit of an odd one.  
  
"My brother," began Aberforth. "You know him well?"  
  
Harry nodded. "He's Headmaster at Hogwarts," he said, without thinking.  
  
Aberforth went wide-eyed. "Really? That *is* a surprise. I honestly never thought the old chap had it in him. Anyway, you're trying to sidetrack me, Harry, my boy. My brother thinks I'm a bit of a lunatic."  
  
So do I, thought Harry, without thinking.  
  
Aberforth glared. "You forget, I think, that I can read your mind," he said. "Please keep your thoughts as much in check in my presence as you would your tongue."  
  
"Sorry," said Harry.  
  
"Apology graciously accepted," said Aberforth, grinning to show that he hadn't *really* been offended at all. "As I was saying ... my brother thinks I'm a complete lunatic. He thinks I'm dim ... a nutter ... a silly fool ... a dumb nitwit. But I'm really not, you know ..."  
  
"Uh, really?" asked Harry.  
  
Aberforth nodded vociferously. "Only kidding," he said. "I'm mad as a March hare. Can Arthur Weasley Apparate?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I only just met the kid," he said. "I somehow very much doubt it."  
  
Aberforth nodded sagely. "Yes ... yes, of course," he said. "He is only a very *small* boy. Nevertheless one might have thought the parents would have ..." he paused, stared off into space. "Never mind ... never mind. I cannot and will not be held responsible for the failure of witches and wizards to instruct their young children correctly in the more refined arts practiced by our kind. Harry ... are you sure you can't Apparate?"  
  
"Absolutely positive," said Harry.  
  
"It is a pity ... a great pity," said Aberforth. "In which case, it looks like we shall have to charm a Portkey. Harry ... get to work on that, and I'll see if I can find this Arthur Weasley character ..."  
  
"Um," said Harry.  
  
Aberforth's bearded face fell. "You surely don't presume to tell me you can't charm a Portkey?" he said.  
  
"I can't," said Harry. "Surely it would be better if I collected Arthur, since I know what he looks like, and then *you* can charm the Portkey?"  
  
Aberforth appeared to ponder this. Then he said. "Actually, I think that's a rather corking idea. You do come up with some good ones, little Harry Potter. I think I should keep you ..."  
  
Harry shuddered.  
  
"We must get to work, then," he said.  
  
**************  
  
1995  
  
"I declare the resolution passed," Dumbledore said. "By six votes to nil, with one abstention ... which was me. Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, for the overwhelming vote of confidence."  
  
The Order of the Phoenix had convened again in Dumbledore's study, high up in its secluded tower. It was their second meeting in as many days, and several of the members were looking tired and drained ... few of them had had any sleep the previous night.  
  
"Congratulations," Arabella said.  
  
"I think, under the circumstances," said Remus. "We'll forego the swearing in ceremony ..."  
  
Dumbledore smiled. "I swear to uphold the laws of the realm. To protect and to serve the wizarding community. To secrete us from Muggles," he began to rattle off the oath. The Order of the Phoenix stared at him, baffled.  
  
"How do you know all that?" asked Remus.  
  
"A little bird told me," said Dumbledore, winking. "Well ... I am the Minister of Magic, it would seem ..."  
  
"What'll be your first act?" asked Sirius. Everybody else glared at him.  
  
"This isn't a laughing matter," said Gwyneth, in her most authoritative Welsh accent.  
  
"I ought really to get straight down to business," said Dumbledore, sitting down behind his desk. "First ... I must resign as Headmaster. Second ... I must take steps to dissolve the Board of Governors ..."  
  
There was a collective intake of breath.  
  
"I'm sorry?" began Rhodri. "You did just say what I thought you did?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "But of course," he said. "We cannot, after all, have the Governors interfering with our business. They could ruin everything ..."  
  
"He's right," said Sirius. "He's completely right ..."  
  
"I second the motion," said Remus, shortly.  
  
"I second the motion," mimicked Sirius. "Honestly ... do you have a hot dog rammed up your arse, or something?"  
  
"Shut up," snapped Arabella. "For God's sake, Sirius. I'd have thought thirteen years in Azkaban would have matured you ... clearly you're destined to remain the spoiled teenager forever more."  
  
There was another collective intake of breath.  
  
"Below the belt, Arabella, below the belt," said Sirius, shaking his head.  
  
"That was completely uncalled for," said Dumbledore. "We can do without this sort of friction. We cannot afford to allow the Order to splinter ..."  
  
"You're right," said Arabella. "Sorry, Sirius."  
  
"S'okay," said Sirius. "I'm a bit on edge, what with Harry missing and all ..."  
  
"I understand," said Arabella. "We all are ... it's been a hard couple of days."  
  
"Aren't you going to apologise to Remus, Sirius?" asked Rhodri.  
  
The ensuing laughter served to break the tension somewhat.  
  
"Seriously, for a minute," said Sirius. "What about your replacement ..."  
  
"There is," Dumbledore began, "a signed, and fully legal document in existence which promises the headship of Hogwarts to Severus Snape ..."  
  
"I vote we override it," said Sirius quickly.  
  
"I haven't finished yet," said Dumbledore. "Whilst ... in a time of peace, I feel Snape would be just the man for the job ... circumstance has rather run away with us of late, don't you agree?"  
  
The Order of the Phoenix nodded their heads.  
  
"In a time of war, such as this," Dumbledore went on, "I fully agree with your concerns over such an appointment. We do not want Hogwarts to become anymore of a target than it is already ... and I think you'll agree ..."  
  
"It's a pretty damn good target," Arabella finished the sentence for him.  
  
"Um, quite," said Dumbledore. "Snape would only serve to make it more so. I have discussed the matter with Snape ... and he agrees fully ..."  
  
"That's a relief," said Remus.  
  
"Ergo, it has been decided to confer the Headship on Minerva McGonagall ... I trust there are no objections?"  
  
Dumbledore glanced around the study, peering at the assembled company over the tops of his spectacles.  
  
"None at all," said Rhodri Finnegan, quickly.  
  
"Go for it," said Sirius.  
  
"I second the motion," said Remus, with a slight grin.  
  
Everyone looked at Sirius expectantly.  
  
"What?" he asked, exasperated.  
  
**************  
  
Draco was lying on his stomach, on his bed, down in the Slytherin dormitories, with their lovely view ... over the moat, with a book open in front of him.  
  
It was one of the few things he had been allowed to actually keep when the Ministry of Magic had repossessed Malfoy Park, its lands and contents, partly as reparations, partly to punish surviving members of the family, and partly to pay off the quite staggering debts of Malfoy International Industries. Along with a few personal effects, it was all Draco had to remind him of the life of finery he had once led. In a way, he kind of missed it.  
  
The book was tatty ... there was no doubt about that. It was bound in very thick, brown dragon hide ... but the cover bore no title. The earliest parts were written in Runic script ... later in Middle English, and later still, up until the Sixteenth Century, to be exact, in Latin. Only the more modern parts were in English.  
  
It was entirely handwritten ... nobody had ever taken a typewriter to it ... heaven forbid ... and this meant that most of it was in a florid, copperplate hand, which was very hard on the eyes. The spine had been chopped and re-assembled countless times as successive generations of Malfoys had added their personal histories to the greater history of the family itself.  
  
Draco was flicking idly through the late Nineteenth Century, observing the photographs that were starting to appear, often affixed to the pages properly, with glue, but more frequently with paperclips, that were rusting away with age. The majority of the pictures were wizarding photos, but owing to the fashions of the Victorians, they were so stiffly posed that most of the people portrayed were barely moving at all ... and if they were, were only scratching, or, in one case, picking their noses.  
  
'The American branch of our great family upon vacation in the Catskills, 1901,' read the caption below a group of people in top hats standing in front of what appeared to be an upmarket mountain lodge, built out of logs. Next to that were two more Malfoys ... the caption proclaimed them to be called 'Eusabius and Tacitus' posing beside a newly acquired automobile ... a 1904 Renault. Both men were possessed of truly epic handlebar moustaches, and their caps were cocked at an angle that must have seemed daring and rakish at the time, but now looked faintly silly.  
  
Draco flipped the page. The next page showed two Malfoys at arms ... Draco had not previously been aware that Malfoys fought during the First World War. These were Pierre and Fabrice Malfoy, both conscripts of the French army ... how strange, he thought, before the action at Verdun. Draco didn't have the faintest idea what had happened at Verdun ... but assumed, rightly, that it had been horrible. Both men were holding bayonets, and again had those moustaches.  
  
Further on were pictures of more Malfoys ... Draco had always found it quite odd ... and if his Father had had his way, would have thought it completely wrong, how many of them had adopted Muggle styles. There was a picture of two young flappers during the 20s, doing the Charleston at an expensive looking ball ... which Draco realised was actually taking place in the ballroom at Malfoy Park: he recognised the King Louis chandelier. Then there were various sporting Malfoys. Eusabius Malfoy popped up again, looking quite a bit older, but tanned and wiry and smiling at the camera, and sporting a broomstick of epic proportions. The caption read, 'Eusabius before Quidditch League Cup Final, Ballycastle vs Holyhead, 1922.' Rhesus Malfoy, in another photo, a teenaged boy with Draco's hair was, 'playing tennis at the All-Wizarding Lawn Championships in Wimbledon - 1928.' Draco had once met Rhesus, at one of his Father's garden parties, when he had been a little boy, and he remembered Rhesus as a doddery old fool who had been a little too fond of the punch.  
  
The next page brought them into the war years. And there were letters pinned to the pages, hundreds of photos ... a page torn out of an aircraft spotters guide showing silhouettes of Heinkels and Dorniers and Junkers 88s. And even a Muggle ration card, with the name Verence Malfoy printed upon it.  
  
'Dear Sabian,' Draco read, unfolding a letter that was crinkled and yellowing at the edges, 'We would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Britain, and we hope your stay will be a pleasant one. Should you have need of any Ministry representatives at all, please feel free to contact us at the telephone number above, day or night. In the meantime, feel free to enjoy the facilities made available by your English cousins at Malfoy Park in Somerset, and please rest assured we are doing all within our power to extricate the rest of your family from France; indeed, our very best men are at present working on it. We would also like to thank you for providing us with your documents and work on sleep psychology, particularly the Dreamscape hypothesis. Such intelligence may prove invaluable, and I have passed on the documents to our scientific branch. I have also conveyed, as per your wishes, your heartfelt thanks to Charles Potter DSM. Yours sincerely, A. Longbottom (Sec. & Aide to Col. C. Potter DSM)'  
  
"Interesting," said Draco, to nobody in particular.  
  
A photograph caught his eye. A group of wizards, standing in front of a building which appeared to be the Ministry headquarters on Diagon Alley, all of them smiling broadly at the camera. Carefully, for the paper was very delicate, Draco took it out, and flipped it over. There were names written on the back.  
  
'Back row: Sabian Malfoy, Juliette Malfoy, Algernon Longbottom, Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore, Auberon Fudge, Emeritus Potter, Charles Potter, Mary Potter. Front row (standing): Thomas Kent, Ernest Plunkett, Armand le Mesurier, Janet Finch, Antonius Snape. Front row (sitting): Arthur Weasley, Cornelius Fudge, Harry Potter.'  
  
Draco coughed, and then flipped the photo over. Sure enough ... there was Harry ... glasses, scar, hair and all, sitting cross-legged at the front of the group with two other boys.  
  
"Bloody hell. I think I found him," he said.  
  
**************  
  
1941  
  
Aberforth, casting furtive eyes about the ward, looked up at Harry, who was sitting up in bed, rubbing his head. There was a dull, throbbing ache inside his skull that just wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he tried to will it.  
  
"It's done," he said, holding up a small hypodermic syringe, which he deposited on Harry's bedclothes. "One Portkey ... a one way ticket to Hogwarts ..."  
  
Harry couldn't really think of anything to say. Aberforth's bounding enthusiasm was, after all, just a little bit overwhelming.  
  
"Impressive, nicht war?" said Aberforth.  
  
Harry nodded, and managed a slight grin.  
  
"Oh, cheer up," said Aberforth. "It isn't nearly as bad as it seems. We'll have this mess sorted out in no time. If you'll excuse me ... I just need to light a fire ..."  
  
Harry was alarmed. "In here?" he exclaimed.  
  
"Where else?" said Aberforth. He pointed his wand at the linoleum floor. "Incendio!"  
  
Instantly, the ward floor burst into bright, incandescent flames, that curled up into the air, sending sparks flying far and wide.  
  
"Won't they notice?" hissed Harry, gesturing with his head to the ward sister's office. The doctors appeared to be having some kind of summit meeting.  
  
"That, my boy," began Aberforth, "is the power of suggestion. Evidently, nobody would ever do anything so patently absurd as lighting a fire on their floor ... they know it will never happen, so when it does, their brains simply pretend it doesn't. Muggles are very easily fooled," he glanced up at them, regarding them with an expression that approached pity.  
  
Harry watched as Aberforth threw a handful of some kind of powder into the fire. "Emeritus!" he barked.  
  
Instantly, another man's face appeared in the dancing flames. He looked quite elderly, had a neatly trimmed beard, complete with an extravagant moustache, and small, wire rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. He appeared to be holding a tin mug, which was steaming gently.  
  
"What do you want?" asked the man, angrily. "I was having my elevenses ..."  
  
Aberforth lowered himself down to the floor. "I have the boys," he said.  
  
"Charmed a Portkey?" asked Emeritus.  
  
Aberforth nodded.  
  
"Well, then what are you waiting for?" asked Emeritus. "Get him out of there. Albus is expecting him ..."  
  
"Albus!" began Harry. "Surely ... isn't it very dangerous for him to know I'm ... I mean ... I ..."  
  
"Shut up," snapped Emeritus, turning to stare at Harry. "You're very weedy for a great-nephew of mine. We'll have to fatten you up a bit ..."  
  
Harry fumed quietly.  
  
"Don't waste anymore time than you have to, Dumbledore," said Emeritus. "Get him to Hogwarts post haste. He'll be all the safer for it ... I look forward to meeting him."  
  
"He's a proper little charmer," said Aberforth, apparently completely forgetting Harry was listening.  
  
"Yees ... quite," said Emeritus, a little uncertainly. "Just get on with it ... and don't do anything stupid ..."  
  
"When did I ever do anything stupid?" asked Aberforth, looking offended.  
  
Emeritus gave a slight cough that sounded very much like, "Goat!"  
  
Aberforth rolled his eyes. "Damn you to hell," he said. "I'll see you later ... cad."  
  
Emeritus grinned, and then his image flickered and died with the flames.  
  
"Let's go," Aberforth said to Harry.  
  
The Muggles, who were deeply absorbed in reading their newspaper, and ranting about the war and life in general, didn't notice as Harry slipped from his bed and into a hospital issue dressing gown and slippers. Nor did they notice as Aberforth lifted the three year old Arthur Weasley from his bed, cradling the tiny boy gently in his arms. Nor did they notice when the two of them put their hands on what appeared to be a standard issue hypodermic.  
  
They did, however, notice, about five minutes later, that all three of them appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth.  
  
**************  
  
1995  
  
Ron and Hermione nearly fainted upon learning of this new intelligence. They were walking alongside the Lake ... the only place any of them could really go without being harassed by any Slytherins ... and though the snow was still lying deep on the ground, and Ron had still not really come to grips with his crutches, they were walking quite quickly to keep warm.  
  
"You're having us on," said Hermione.  
  
"He's never gone back in time ... I mean ... how?" began Ron, fumbling awkwardly in the snow.  
  
Draco showed them the photo.  
  
"I don't know *how*," he said. "I just have a feeling that that is where he's gone. How old do you think he looks?"  
  
"Our age," said Hermione. "He looks about the same age as that boy next to him," she turned the photo over, "who is Cornelius Fudge ... good Lord ... the poor boy must've had plastic surgery on that conk!"  
  
"The Minister of Magic's nose aside for a minute," said Ron. "May I see it?"  
  
Hermione handed it over. Ron wobbled slightly, but stayed upright as he examined the picture.  
  
"The other boy is your father, Ron," said Draco.  
  
Ron appeared to be having some kind of epiphany. His eyes were glazed over.  
  
"That's my Dad," he said to himself. "Is that really my Dad?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Arthur Weasley isn't a very common name, now, is it? I mean, who'd subject their child to the humiliation of a name like that ..."  
  
Hermione shushed him, but was a little perturbed to find that not only was Ron not saying anything against Malfoy, as he would normally have done, but also appeared not to have noticed.  
  
"It's Harry I'm more worried about," said Hermione, taking back the picture. "I mean, no offence, Ron, but your father was old enough to have been around during 1941 ... plenty old enough ..."  
  
"None taken," said Ron, woozily.  
  
"How did Harry get back there?" asked Draco.  
  
"Time Turner?" suggested Hermione. "Lord knows where he'd come across one ... but that's how I used to get to all my lessons ..."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Long story," said Hermione, quickly. "Have you ever seen one before?"  
  
Draco thought for a moment. "I might've done if I actually knew what they looked like," he said to them both. "Perhaps Father had one in his study. It's the sort of thing he would have had. They send you back in time, right?"  
  
Hermione nodded. "They do ... they move you in time, but not in space. It's like a temporal Portkey."  
  
"I get it," said Draco.  
  
"I don't," said Ron glumly.  
  
"Never mind," said Draco. "It must be someone else's turn with the family brain cell today. You'll ..."  
  
"Oh wait ... I just got it," said Ron, looking relieved.  
  
"You've got it?" exclaimed Draco. "You should see a vet at once!"  
  
"Shut up, Malfoy," said Ron. "So, Harry's got hold of a Time Turner ... we don't know how, and he's somehow sent himself back through time to the Second World War ... why ... we don't know. But we do need to get him back ..."  
  
"Right so far," said Hermione.  
  
"There must be a Time Turner somewhere round the school," said Ron. "Perhaps even the one Harry used is still lying around somewhere. Or maybe one of the teachers has one ... we could steal one from somewhere ..."  
  
"Weasley," said Draco, calmly as anything. "We all have something to bring to this discussion, and right now, I think the thing you should bring is silence."  
  
"No, maybe he's got a point," said Hermione.  
  
"Twice in one day?" exclaimed Ron. "When you're hot, you're hot!"  
  
"Draco," said Hermione. "Have you ever seen something that looks like a little hourglass pendant on a gold chain?"  
  
"That would be a Time Turner?" asked Draco.  
  
"Exactly right," said Hermione.  
  
Ron was idly picking dirt from behind his fingernails.  
  
"I can't think," said Draco. "Weasley's within a hundred yards of me ..."  
  
"Rack your brains," said Hermione, glaring at her ex.  
  
Ron looked up. "McGonagall has one," he said, suddenly.  
  
"What??" Draco's expression betrayed immediately what he was thinking; he was utterly amazed.  
  
"Well," said Ron. "Remember when Harry and I got a detention at the start of term ..."  
  
"For turning into hamsters in the Great Hall!" said Draco, with a note of glee in his tone. "Yeah ... that was *well* funny!"  
  
Ron gave Draco a glance that suggested, in no uncertain terms, that he would have liked to have done something very nasty to Draco, possibly involving sharp spikes and treacle. "Listen," he said. "When we went up there to organise our detentions ... she had this little hourglass thing on her desk. Attached to a neck chain, yeah?"  
  
Hermione nodded. "Think that might be one?"  
  
Ron shrugged. "You know what they look like," he said. "Do they look the same?"  
  
"Haven't the foggiest," said Hermione. "Do we want to take the chance, though?"  
  
**************  
  
1941  
  
"You'll be sleeping in here," said the dark-haired boy, opening the door. Harry shuddered, inwardly. Something about this boy, with his over-polished prefect's badge, irked him. "It isn't altogether a very *nice* room ... but then, these are Gryffindors we're talking about. The Slytherin dormitories are much, much nicer. You should join *us* instead."  
  
"Er, thanks," said Harry, realising with something of a shock that this was his own dormitory that he was being shown into. How different it looked fifty four years ago.  
  
"You can put your bags under the bed here," said the prefect in a bored voice, "except you don't actually have any. Charity student?"  
  
"No," said Harry firmly. He had already taken a firm dislike to this boy.  
  
"Pure-blooded?"  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "My parents were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean ..."  
  
This did not seem to impress the prefect at all. "I'd watch what you say ... you might find certain people at this school don't hold with that libertarian mumbo-jumbo. Just a friendly warning, 'cos you're new around here, and hey, I've taken a shine to you."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry, without meaning it.  
  
The prefect slipped quietly out of the dormitory, and a moment later Harry heard guffaws of laughter as he went downstairs. He felt his ears burning.  
  
A moment later, the door thudded open, and two other boys came in. One of them had silvery blond hair, and looked quite remarkably like Draco, right down to the sallow face and grey eyes ... the other was short and quite squat, giving the impression of far too much greasy food, and not enough Quidditch.  
  
"I say," said the taller, blond one. "Whoever let that pompous oaf Riddle up here?"  
  
"Such an idiot," the other boy said, quite loudly too. He put on a falsetto voice, and added. "Ooh, Professor Dippet, may I polish your shoes? I'm sooo good ... for a Slytherin ..."  
  
They both caught sight of Harry.  
  
"Oh," said the blond one.  
  
"Are you that new chap Professor Dumbledore told us about?" asked the squat one.  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah ... I guess."  
  
"He talks awfully funny," said the blond one, conspiratorially, in very clipped, Oxford vowels. "Where are you from?"  
  
"Don't really know," said Harry. "Lived in Surrey most of my life."  
  
"You don't sound like you do," said the blond one. "I'm from Epsom ... well ... it's where I live during the holidays. Father is in the Colonial Service for the Ministry in India. Don't you really know?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Where were you born?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "London, I think," he said.  
  
"You think?"  
  
"My parents died ... okay?" said Harry, losing his cool momentarily.  
  
"Oh ... um, all right," said the blond one. "Sorry, and all that."  
  
"Was that really Tom Riddle?" asked Harry.  
  
The blond boy gave him a funny, sideways glance. "How do you know him?" he asked. "Yeah ... that's Tom Riddle, all right. Arrogant little twerp. I socked him one on the nose at a Quidditch match."  
  
"We've met before," said Harry.  
  
"Out of school. I say ... your parents weren't into all that Dark Magic stuff, were they? I mean, before they died?"  
  
"Eustace!" snapped the podgier boy. "Tom Riddle's a bit of an odd one. He's into all that kind of thing. And it's more than an obsession. He's going to end up getting hurt, silly sod. I'm Steve, by the way, Steve Gold. This is Eustace Malfoy ..."  
  
"As in, Malfoy, Malfoy?" asked Harry, incredulously staring at the boy.  
  
Eustace rolled his eyes. "M'afraid so, old chap," he said. "My old man nearly threw a fit and died when I got put in Gryffindor. He wanted me to be a Slytherin ... so now he's pinning all his hopes on Lucius ... and he's nothing more than a sprog," he picked his teeth idly as he spoke. Harry was reminded incredibly of Draco's mannerisms.  
  
"You know Lucius Malfoy?"  
  
"*Know* him?" scoffed Eustace. "He's my baby brother, old chap."  
  
"Nobody called Potter here, is there?" asked Harry, on the off chance.  
  
"Not since two years ago," said Eustace. "Old Charlie was nearly Head Boy ... but Dippet's going senile, so they say, and the job went to some Hufflepuff called Jack Lambert. Potter was the man for the job, though ... Quidditch captain, and all round bloody good egg ... you play Quidditch at all?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Oh, yes," he said.  
  
"What position?"  
  
"Seeker," said Harry. "I was the youngest house player in a century ... I," he paused, catching their expressions. "At my old school."  
  
"We should try you out," said Eustace. "After dinner ... there's a practice. I'm Seeker at the minute. We'll have to see if you can better me. I don't even know your name."  
  
"Harry," said Harry.  
  
"Got a surname at all ..."  
  
Harry was just about to fabricate something, when the door to the dormitory opened, and Aberforth poked his head around it. "Ah, Potter," he said. "They said I'd find you up here. Some people have arrived you might want to meet."  
  
"I'll see you later," said Harry, as he was ushered out of the dormitory.  
  
He was led, to his great surprise, to Professor McGonagall's office ... except, of course, that it being fifty-four years ago, it wasn't Professor McGonagall's office. Instead, the brass plaque screwed onto the door read 'Albus Dumbledore - Transfiguration.'  
  
Aberforth knocked.  
  
"You'd better go in," he said. "If he's not there, wait."  
  
Harry opened the door, and stepped inside. The office was deserted. Feeling slightly strange, he walked over to the desk and sat down opposite it. The office wasn't really all that different from how McGonagall kept it. There were the same types of books on the shelves ... the same carriage clock on the mantelpiece. The only real difference was the gilt cage containing, of all the birds Harry wasn't expecting to see, Fawkes.  
  
He had been waiting about five minutes when the door opened again, and three people walked in. One of them was unmistakably a younger Dumbledore ... Harry recognised him from his resemblance to Aberforth ... and of course, he vaguely remembered seeing him like this a few years earlier, when he had found himself sucked into the memories of Tom Riddle. I must stop picking up strange diaries, he thought to himself. I always seem to end up in all sorts of trouble.  
  
The other people, Harry didn't recognise at all. There was a young, and very pretty woman, and a man who looked vaguely like the photos of Harry's dad ... he had the same untidy black hair. He was wearing a blue RAF uniform.  
  
"Harry," said Dumbledore warmly, sitting down on the desk. "Good to meet you in the flesh at last. You've been through quite an ordeal, no?"  
  
Harry nodded ... he somehow felt barely able to speak.  
  
"I think I should ... yes ... Harry, this young woman, I believe you know. She is currently a student teacher here, completing her secondment from the London College of Witchcraft. Minerva McGonagall."  
  
"Pleasure to meet you, Harry," said Professor McGonagall. "From what Professor Dumbledore has told us, you're something of a tearaway ..."  
  
"I'd expect nothing less of my Grandson," said the other man, leaning forwards to ruffle Harry's hair. "Charles Potter, at your service. A real treat to meet you before time, as it were ..."  
  
Harry looked to all three of them. "Isn't this dangerous?" he asked. "I could let anything slip ..."  
  
Dumbledore grinned. "Then try your damnedest not to," he said. "We'll take the chance, Harry. It is hardly your fault that you're here, after all ... and there are such things as Memory Charms. We're not so primitive, back in the 1940s."  
  
"I thought ..." began Harry. "I ... was it a Time Turner? I used one of ..." he stopped himself hurriedly.  
  
"It wasn't, funnily enough," said Dumbledore. "It was something that ... that you'll find out for yourself in good time. As it is, your being here is certainly no accident."  
  
"How d'you mean?" asked Harry.  
  
"What Professor Dumbledore is saying," said Professor McGonagall, "is that you were brought here for a purpose. Part of that purpose you have, already filled, as it were ..."  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed," he said. "You rescued a boy called Arthur Weasley from a burning building."  
  
Harry nodded. "Yes ... but ... I didn't mean to ... I mean," he didn't really know what he meant.  
  
Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Arthur Weasley would certainly have died if you had not risked your life, Harry," he said. "Can you think why that might be important in the future ... important for you?"  
  
Harry pondered ... and then it hit him, full on. "Well," he said, thinking as he did so; how could I have been so stupid? "Well ... he is my best friend's Father."  
  
"Exactly. I've not met your friend, Ron," said Dumbledore. "But I have spoken a great deal with your Headmaster ... with ... well ... with myself. I understand also that there are great difficulties for you, your friends in the future? You might call it a time of trial for you."  
  
"Yeah, I suppose," said Harry.  
  
"And if Ron didn't exist," said Dumbledore, "then perhaps the whole fabric of your time might be different. The consequences of our actions are so diverse that predicting the future is ... very tricky indeed. There are few true seers. It is something of a paradox."  
  
Harry couldn't figure it out.  
  
"Let me put it like this," said Dumbledore, sensing his confusion. "If you hadn't come back in time ... then Arthur Weasley would certainly have died. Ron would not have been born ... you would not have become friends with him or Hermione, and therefore, you would not have been able to find your way past the trick potions, or the giant chess set, back in your First Year ... you would not have been able to get out of the Chamber of Secrets ... indeed, without Ron's sister, it would not have been opened. Who can say what would have happened. Your friends are as vital to the equation as you, Harry."  
  
"But if I didn't rescue Arthur Weasley ... wouldn't someone else have?"  
  
Dumbledore shrugged. "That, my boy, is the paradox. Who can say. Better you came back in time and did it yourself, that he died, I think?"  
  
"But then ... doesn't that mean my entire life has ... y'know ... like, pointed to that moment?" asked Harry.  
  
"Not at all," said Dumbledore. "Lives are not pre-ordained. Nothing is set ... but ... time travel brings such a complicated set of procedures, physical and magical to the fore. It is impossible to explain it ... because nobody can understand it. That is the reason why Muggles debunk it as a waste of time. They do not trust what they can't explain. And that, Harry, is magic. What we can't explain."  
  
"I ... see," said Harry.  
  
"Best you don't try to understand, Harry, wing it and go with the flow," said Charles, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Am I to take him home tonight?"  
  
"Perhaps not," said Dumbledore. "He should stay with us for tonight, certainly, then you can take him down to London."  
  
"Meet the family, and such," said Charles.  
  
Harry's heart leapt.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "I can see how that ... yes ... I don't see the harm," he said. "We'll just use a Memory Charm on them afterwards ... Dumbled ... I tell myself that you play Quidditch rather well, Harry."  
  
Harry nodded. "How ... how do you know Professor Dum ... I mean ... you?" he asked.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore has been a frequent visitor to our time," said Dumbledore. "It seems he obtained a Time Turner of his own, at some point in the future, and uses it, uses it to smooth the paths of those closest to him."  
  
"You mean me?" asked Harry. "Is Dumbledore behind all this?"  
  
"Your, future Dumbledore ... in a way, he is," said Dumbledore.  
  
Harry was now very confused indeed. "But, surely," he said. "Is he here now ... can I go back with him?"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "Even Dumble ... even ... my word, this is more confusing than ever I gave it credit for. Even *he* cannot interfere too much. It is only because he has complete trust in himself, not to tell anybody ... and Minerva and Charles here will have their memories altered afterwards, if they consent. But Dumbledore ... I ... pardon me if this appears like vanity. I am rather special. And of course, your Dumbledore knows that it is safe to talk to himself because he went through this himself once upon a time. He saw himself, and you, come back from the future. And he didn't tell anybody about it ... so he knows he can come back ... another paradox, you see."  
  
Harry's brain was whirling.  
  
"I think, maybe dinner?" hazarded Dumbledore. "That at least is a fixed event ..."  
  
Charles chuckled. "You know what they say, Albus?"  
  
Dumbledore looked up.  
  
"No, what?"  
  
"Time is an illusion ... dinnertime doubly so," said Charles.  
  
"Oh, do shut up."  
  
**************  
1995  
  
Hermione and Draco lay in wait until Professor McGonagall had left her study to go down to dinner. Then, they crept into her office, which, as luck would have it, she had left unlocked. Hermione lit a couple of candles, casting flickering light over the old bookshelves.  
  
"Where did Ron say it was?" asked Draco, cautiously, peering around the office.  
  
"He said," said Hermione, tugging open one of the desk drawers and inspecting the contents, which were, variously a half drunk bottle of Gordon's Gin, a spare pair of spectacles and a buff coloured folder with 'Potter - Fan Mail' written on it. "He said that he saw it dangling from one of the shelves ..."  
  
She closed the drawer, and opened another one. This contained a leather bound photo album, and a box of toothflossing stringmints.  
  
"But *that* was back in September," whined Draco pathetically. "It's nearly Christmas ..."  
  
"She *mightn't* have used it since then," said Hermione. "Look around you, Draco. It's bound to be here somewhere."  
  
Draco could be heard muttering something under his breath, which sounded like, "Why don't you get your precious *Ronniekins* to look for it then, if you're so sure it's in here ..."  
  
Hermione ignored him, which was just as well, for at that moment, what should she see but a Time Turner, placed carefully on the topmost shelf in between two piles of stacked books.  
  
"Got it!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, reaching out for it. Sadly, it was too high for her, and Draco had to retrieve it on her behalf. He clasped it tightly in his hand, and stared at it.  
  
"So *this*," he said, in a tone suggesting deep disappointment. "Is what we were looking for. This is what we broke into McGonagall's office to find? It looks like a cheap pendant. The sort people sell at fairs ..."  
  
"Oh, be quiet, for heaven's sake!" snapped Hermione. "Give it here."  
  
Draco handed it over, muttering, as he did so, "Nobody tells *me* to be quiet."  
  
"You're really very irritating," said Hermione. "Did anybody ever tell you that ..."  
  
"All my life," snarled Draco.  
  
"Look," said Hermione, holding it up to the light. "It has different levels, depending on how far back you want to go. The first sends you back in hours, the second in days, the third in weeks, the fourth in years, and the fifth in decades ..."  
  
"What about centuries?" asked Draco.  
  
"Tough cookies," said Hermione in reply. "So, say I wanted to go back two hours from now, I'd set it to the first level, and turn the little hourglass over twice ..."  
  
She promptly vanished.  
  
"Oh, bugger," said Draco.  
  
And then reappeared again, right where she had been standing before.  
  
Draco was somewhat flabbergasted. "Um ... exactly ... how ... did ... um ... you do that?" he asked.  
  
"Easy," said Hermione. "I just went back two hours ago."  
  
"What was it like?" asked Draco.  
  
"I said two *hours*," said Hermione. "It was exactly the same as it is now, except lighter outside. And Professor McGonagall was asleep on the desk ..."  
  
"That must have been a sight," said Draco. "May I try?"  
  
Hermione handed it over. "But come right back afterwards," she said.  
  
Draco nodded ... took the Time Turner, and, copying what Hermione had done, twisted it round two times.  
  
Instantly, he felt a rush of blood to the head ... a funny, shivering sensation seemed to be enveloping his entire body, and then his feet touched solid ground, and he opened his eyes, and found himself standing in McGonagall's office. The only difference was, indeed, as Hermione had said, that Professor McGonagall herself was asleep, her head pillowed on her arms. Draco turned the Time Turner back over immediately lest she wake up, and immediately, found himself back in the study with Hermione.  
  
"It really works!" he said, in amazement.  
  
They left the office post haste after that, just in case someone important did come back and find them raiding it, and hurried back to Gryffindor Tower as fast as their legs could carry them.  
  
Ron was sitting on his bed up in the dormitory, reading a book that he hastily shoved back under the pillows when they came in.  
  
"Any joy?" he asked.  
  
Hermione nodded. Draco, meanwhile, was staring around the dormitory in amazement. He had been up to Gryffindor Tower before, of course, but never to the dorms ... and frankly, he was overcome with jealousy. This was *much* better than Slytherin's draughty dungeons. He made a mental note to write to his Father and complain ... and then remembered that he didn't have one.  
  
"Well," prompted Ron.  
  
"It was exactly where you said it would be," said Hermione. "Give or take. You were right."  
  
Ron spluttered. "Of course I'm right ... I'm always right."  
  
Hermione gave a loud, forced cough that sounded like, "Scabbers!"  
  
Ron glared at her.  
  
"When we've quite finished, children," said Draco, smarmily. "I think Weasley here might want to hear just how, in a feat of dashing heroism worthy of the highest accolade, I snatched the Time Turner from the gaping jaws of death and ..."  
  
"It was on a shelf, next to some books," said Hermione.  
  
"And nobody saw you?" asked Ron, holding out his hand for the Time Turner. Hermione deposited it in his palm.  
  
"Nobody whatsoever," said Draco.  
  
"Excellent," said Ron. "Um, what do I want with this, exactly?"  
  
Hermione took the Time Turner back. "Of course ... sorry. Well, it's really quite a simple device to operate ... there are five levels, you see, each of which corresponds to a different unit of time, so of course, depending on how far backwards or forwards in time you actually want to go ... you can ..."  
  
"I *know* how a Time Turner works, Hermione," said Ron, viciously.  
  
"Um ... okay ... sorry," said Hermione.  
  
"You intend using it, I presume?" Ron asked.  
  
Hermione gave him a funny look. "Well ... that was the plan," she said. "Unless you can think of a better one ..."  
  
"Not really," huffed Ron.  
  
"What has got into you?" asked Hermione. "You're really not yourself lately ..."  
  
Ron looked awkwardly up at them. "I'm just stressed ... okay?" he said.  
  
"Sure ... sure ... it's just ..."  
  
"Look, never mind," said Ron. "You have my full support."  
  
"Thanks," said Hermione. "I shall always wear it."  
  
"That wasn't even slightly funny," said Draco, in an infinitely bored tone of voice. "Look ... are we actually going to do anything about ..."  
  
Ron cut him off. "It's the middle of dinner," he said. "We should go down to the Great Hall and eat. We don't want you setting off on your little adventure with empty tummies ..."  
  
"Ron ... what have ..."  
  
Ron waggled his fingers at them. "No arguments," he said. "Besides, it'll look less suspicious if you show up for dinner, look innocent ... chat to the others and stuff."  
  
"Ooh ... good thinking," said Hermione.  
  
"For once, Weasley ... I think you're right," said Draco. "But don't count on it ever happening again ..."  
  
"I can barely contain my indifference," said Ron. "Now ... it's coming up to seven o'clock. Shall we synchronise watches?"  
  
"Maybe that'd be taking things a bit too far," said Hermione.  
  
"They always do it in films," said Ron. "I was just trying to add a realistic dynamic to quite a dull sequence ... cinematographically speaking ..."  
  
"Let's just go," said Draco  
  
**************  
Professor McGonagall looked at the assembled Order with slightly goggle eyes.  
  
"I'm ever so sorry," she repeated. "But I seem to have misheard you. I'm quite certain you said I'd just been appointed Headmistress of Hogwarts ..."  
  
"Yeah ... there'd be a very good reason for that ..." Rhodri Finnegan began, a smile creeping across his face.  
  
"We did," said Sirius, simply.  
  
Professor McGonagall glanced around Dumbledore's ... her ... study again. The faces of all present betrayed no hint of a practical joke.  
  
"You will, of course, serve out your statutory three months notice as Transfiguration Mistress," Dumbledore said. "Your pay will be adjusted accordingly ..."  
  
Professor McGonagall could feel herself going very red indeed. "But ... I ... don't really want ..."  
  
"Congratulations, Minerva," Arabella smiled broadly.  
  
"Well ... I suppose I could," Professor McGonagall, despite herself, found herself warming to the idea somewhat. "But what about Snape ... what about *you*, Albus?"  
  
She regarded the Headmaster with a look of concern.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," said Dumbledore. "It would ... appear. Minerva, in the absence of any form of political power in this country, I am now the Minister of Magic."  
  
"Oh ... Albus."  
  
Dumbledore grinned. "I'm not entirely sure just what their justification was in voting for me. All the same, I am obliged under the Terms and Conditions of the Emergency Succession Act (1979) to step aside as Headmaster immediately, and assume the reins of power ..."  
  
"But ... London ... you can't," Professor McGonagall managed to stutter. "I mean ... we don't even have an army ..."  
  
"I have been in touch with General Watson," said Dumbledore. "He assures me I have the unequivocal support of the Minister's Guard, and what remains of the Ministry's apparatus has all come over to me ..."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"Meaning Lord Voldemort," Professor McGonagall shuddered on cue, "has succeeded in doing a rather fine hatchet job on those operatives of the MLES, the MCID, the IBME Circle ... even the Department of Mysteries who did not immediately declare for him. Most of those who did not declare their loyalty to him are either dead, or have already fled London. We have cells in most major towns ... we control all of Scotland and Northumberland without exception ... I have everyone I can behind me on this ..."  
  
"Your cabinet?"  
  
Dumbledore gestured to the Order of the Phoenix. "Them," he said. "I was rather hoping that in your capacity as Headmistress, you might allow us to use school facilities as governmental ones ..."  
  
Professor McGonagall was taken aback. "Albus ... Minister ... I cannot possibly ... for the safety of the children. You would turn us into a prime target. Besides ... I need gubernatorial approval."  
  
"The Hogwarts Board of Governors and Parents Association has been dissolved ... and that includes the Summer Barbecue Committee," said Sirius, flatly. "As of 16:56 hours GMT today. *We* are now the Hogwarts Governors ..."  
  
"They're not going to like that," Professor McGonagall said.  
  
Dumbledore scowled. "This is *war* ... Minerva. I'm not entirely sure you understand the enormity of our situation at this time ... the Governors have already approved the release of school facilities for governmental purposes ..."  
  
"But ... you can't ... just ... do that," said Professor McGonagall.  
  
"Evidently, they just have," said another voice, in sarcastic tones. Snape stepped out of the shadows ... Professor McGonagall had not noticed him standing there.  
  
"Severus ..."  
  
"They have my full support," said Snape, blankly. "This is an emergency situation ..."  
  
"Good," said Dumbledore. "That's settled then. I think we should send out to the kitchens for a light snackerel of something. I'm rather peckish, myself."  
  
**************  
  
Hermione took Draco's hand. "You need to be close by me," she explained. "It won't work ... like I said ..."  
  
"Like a Portkey," said Draco, breathlessly ... "I remember."  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"Pity we couldn't take Ron," she said.  
  
"He'd only slow us up," said Draco.  
  
Hermione nodded. He was, of course, completely correct. There was no way on earth they would be able to take Ron with them. Not with his leg.  
  
"How far back?" asked Draco.  
  
Hermione cradled the Time Turner in the palm of her hand ... examining minutely the tiny, golden object. Finally, she spoke, "Five turns of the Fifth .... Four of the Fourth," she said. "Takes us to December 8th, 1941 ... I hope."  
  
She turned it over.  
  
Instantly, both of them felt that bizarre sensation creeping over them again ... the head rush ... the nasty shivering feeling ... and then there was a whooshing sound of air as they left a Draco and Hermione shaped hole in the present ... and were gone.  
  
Their feet touched solid ground.  
  
A lamp flared ...  
  
END OF PART SEVEN.  
  
POSERS.  
  
Any guesses? What is going to happen to Draco and Hermione? What about Harry? Am I ever going to stop being so damn confusing?   
  
THANKS!  
  
Respect is going out today in ... alphabetical order ... to the following fine, upstanding citizens;  
  
The new dream team of beta-reading ... Viola, Karina, Sylph and Parker. Muchos schnoogles y un grande abrazo!  
  
Amy&Sheila - it makes my day when I get a review saying I'm not being totally confusing. Thank you so much ... your guesses were intriguing, too. In answer to your question, I got the name Algernon from a very good book called 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.' But I'm afraid the train accident was just a red herring.  
AVK - it wasn't Harry's mortal enemy who snuck up on him. I can tell you we've already met Harry's mortal enemy, and likewise, we've met the guy who whacked him on the head at the end of Part 6.  
Black Goddess - thanks for your comments. You're clearly quite hot on my trail with this. Damn!  
Blardyboo - I am pleased I managed to work you up sufficiently to leave such a warm, heartfelt review. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for opening my eyes to such a grave travesty as mis-stating someone's height ... may I burn in the fiery depths of hell for vexing you.  
Cali - thanks!  
Coqui - I saw Pirates of Penzance once, a village production in the church hall ... it was ... different. I can't remember much of it because I was nine at the time. Hope you made it in.  
Crystal Music - thanks for the comments!  
cyn/Perenelle - I confess to being confused over just how you managed to draw Ferris Bueller references out of Part 6. I rather like risotto, myself *vbg*  
Dorthey Star - thanks!  
Dr Branford - squidge?  
earnest - yes, I think he's desperately OOC too. But never mind. Depressed!Harry is great fun to write.  
Ex-LongLongHair - I'd *hate* to think I was causing you to stray over your Internet limits *wink wink* ... respect goes out to the Aussie crew!  
Frogstar42 - thanks! Promise not to send any of those robot scouts after me, please?  
Gileonnen - thirteen parts and a sequel. You know, I'd originally intended for the ruins in the woods to be a red herring, but I've now worked them back into the plot ... you'll be seeing them again soon. They're important ... I've decided.  
Hermione A. Snape - gracias!  
Hydy - I don't look as much like Harry as I used to. Hermione wasn't actually given the ability to cross into dreams ... there's something going on there. It'll become obvious later just how Hermione managed to get into the dream. It might help for you to go and read some of J.K's hints about Book 5 ... I'm building on a concept she's already alluded to. Check out the HP Galleries website if curious. Bad!Hydy is coming soon, fear not!  
Jessica - you'll have to wait and see. I have no ship preference, so it could go either way. I take it you'd rather not have Ron/Hermione?  
Jori Car'Das - thanks!  
Karina - I'm not letting on whether you're right or not about the mortal enemy. You'll find out soon enough. It isn't Dumbledore. Thanks for beta-ing *schnoogles Karina*  
karina305 - thank you!  
Keith - thanks!  
lily - thanks!  
Lin-z - thanks!  
Macabre - are you as upset as I am about Douglas Adams? A real shame, that was. I'll put in loads more quotes to make up for it.  
maidmarian62 - Harry hadn't been back in time at all during Part 6 ... that was all a dream, so Charlie wouldn't have recognised him. Or maybe he did! It's all part of the mystery.  
Nayia_Potter - thanks!  
Parvati&Padma - geomancy sounds interesting. I have no idea how it would work in dreams or anything ... I'm basically bluffing and reading up in little books when it comes to all the Pagan, Celtic and Wiccan stuff.  
Rufus - thanks!  
Saitaina - *gloggles*  
Sheryll - thanks!  
Silverfox - they did actually market hedgehog flavour crisps in Britain a few years ago ... they synthesised the flavour from chemicals ... no hedgehogs were harmed. They taste a bit like roast beef and mustard.  
Snuffles - thanks!  
Some Girl - here's hoping I didn't take too long for you *vbg*  
Sweetfires - good point about the dragons. Why didn't I think of that??  
Tanasia - hope you made it back okay! Keep slogging through Discworld ... it is worth it, IMO.  
The Unicorn Whisperer - it wasn't a banshee, as I think is probably now obvious to you, that was an air raid warning siren Harry heard.   
Trinity - we can't be sure that James and Lily would remember seeing Harry ... technically, they didn't, because that was a dream. More will become clear if this seems confusing.  
Viola - mad schnoogles for the beta read. I'd have liked to have had some cameos from DWB along for the ride, but thought that'd be too obvious. Ginny is going to be a big player later on.  
Yael - ooh ... your reviews leave me all light headed and bouncy! There's too much to reply to. Ron isn't/wasn't actually causing the dreams. Oh ... I didn't actually draw that picture ... someone else did and gave it to me, I'm flattered all the same. Fear of offending anybody reading this prevents me from responding to your notes about terrorism. I have my own opinions on the situation anyway. I *do* worry about you whenever news comes through. Be lucky, m'dear.  
Zephyr - not Tom Riddle, as is probably now obvious ... good guesses though. Don't stumble over cliffs ... we'd miss you in the fandom.  
  
PLUG  
  
Discussion of this chapter will hopefully get underway over at HP_Paradise, http://groups.yahoo.com/group/HP_Paradise ... so if you're feeling that way inclined, then skip over and join us.  



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